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THE    ITALIANS: 


A  NOVEL. 

I 


BY 

FRANCES    ELLIOT, 

AUTHOR  OP 

"ROMANCE  OF  OLD  COTTET  LIFE  m  FRANCE,"  "THE  DIAKY  OF  AN  IDLE 

•WOMAN  IN  ITALY,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

549   AND   551    BROADWAY. 
1875. 


TO 


TIIE     REAL     EN  RIG  A, 


THE  AUTHOR'S  LOYE. 


8RLF 
URL 


CONTENTS, 


PART  L 

CHAP.  PAGB 

I.  LUCCA  ........      5 

II.  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  LUCCA  .  .  .  .17 

III.  TIIE  THREE  WITCHES  .  .  .  .  .  .22 

IV.  TIIE  MARCIIESA  GUINIGI      .....          34 
V.  ENRICA  .  .  .  .  .  .  .44 

VI.  MARCIIESA  GUINIGI  AT  HOME          ....  49 

VII.  COUNT  MARESCOTTI       .            .            .            .            .  .58 

VIII.  THE  CABINET  COUNCIL  .....  76 

IX.  THE  COUNTESS  ORSETTI'S  BALL  85 


PART  II. 

I.  CALUMNY  .......  108 

II.  CHURCH  OF  SAN  FREDIANO  .  .  .  .          115 

III.  THE  GUINIGI  TOWER    .  .  .  .  .  .131 

IV.  COUNT  NOBILI        .  .  .  .  .  .146 

V.  NUMBER  FOUR  AT  THE  UXIVERSO  HOTEL          .  .  .  155 

VI.  A  XEW  PHILOSOPHY  .....  170 
VII.  THE  MARCHESA'S  PASSION  .....  182 
VIII.  EXRICA'S  TRIAL  .  .  .  .  .  .188 

IX.  "\VHAT  CAME  OF  IT  .  196 


CONTENTS. 


PART  III. 

CHAP.  PAGH 

I.  A  LONELY  TOWN  ......  202 

II.  WHAT  SILVESTRO  SATS            .            .            .            .  .213 

III.  WHAT  CAME  OF  BURNING  THE  MARCHESA'S  PAPERS          .  224 

IV.  WHAT  A  PRIEST  SHOULD  BE    .            .            .            .  .  235 
V.  "SAY  NOT  TOO  MUCH"      .....  238 

VI.  THE  CONTRACT              .            .            .            .            .  .252 

VII.  THE  CLUB  AT  LUCCA        .....  265 

VIII.  COUNT  NOBILI'S  THOUGHTS      .            .            .            .  .282 

IX.  NERA  288 


PART  IV. 

I.  WAITING  AND  LONGING     .....         304 

II.  A  STORM  AT  THE  VILLA          .  .  .  .  .316 

III.  BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH          .  .  .  .          321 

IV.  FRA  PACIFICO  AND  THE  MARCUESA     ....  331 

V.    TO   BE,    OR  NOT   TO   BE?        .  .  .  .  .  338 

VI.  THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW    .  .  .  .  .345 

VII.  THE  HOUR  STRIKES  .....          356 

VIII.  FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  A  NAME  .....  366 

IX.  HUSBAND  VERSUS  WIFE    .....          371 

X.  THE  LAWYER  BAFFLED  .....  381 

XI.  FACE  TO  FACE       ......          388 

XII.  On  BF.I.I.O  !      .  .  .  .  .  400 


THE    ITALIANS, 


CHAPTER  I. 

LUCCA. 

WE  are  at  Lucca.  It  is  the  13th  of  September,  1870 
— the  anniversary  of  the  festival  of  the  Volto  Santo — a 
notable  day,  both  in  city,  suburb,  and  province.  Lucca 
dearly  loves  its  festivals — no  city  more ;  and  of  all  the  fes 
tivals  of  the  year  that  of  the  Volto  Santo  best.  Now  the 
Volto  Santo  (Anglicd,  Holy  Countenance)  is  a  miraculous 
crucifix,  which  hangs,  as  may  be  seen,  all  by  itself  in  a 
gorgeous  chapel — more  like  a  pagoda  than  a  chapel,  and 
more  like  a  glorified  bird-cage  than  either — built  expressly 
for  it  among  the  stout  Lombard  pillars  in  the  nave  of  the 
cathedral.  The  crucifix  is  of  cedar-wood,  very  black,  and 
very  ugly,  and  it  was  carved  by  Nicodemus ;  of  this  fact 
no  orthodox  Catholic  entertains  a  doubt.  But  on  what 
authority  I  cannot  tell,  nor  why,  nor  how,  the  Holy  Coun 
tenance  reached  the  snug  little  city  of  Lucca,  except  by 
flaying  through  the  air  like  the  Loretto  house,  or  springing 
out  of  the  earth  like  the  Madonna  of  Feltri.  But  here  it 
is,  and  here  it  has  been  for  many  a  long  year ;  and  here  it 
will  remain  as  a  miraculous  relic,  bringing  with  it  blessings 
and  immunities  innumerable  to  the  grateful  city. 

What  a  glorious  morning  it  is  !     The  sun  rose  without 


(j  THE   ITALIANS. 

a  cloud.  Now  there  is  a  golden  haze  hanging  over  the 
plain,  and  glints  as  of  living  flame  on  the  flanks  of  the 
mountains.  From  all  sides  crowds  are  pressing  toward 
Lucca.  Before  six  o'clock  every  high-road  is  alive.  Down 
from  the  highest  mountain-top  of  Pizzorna,  overlooking 
Florence  and  its  vine-garlanded  campagna,  comes  the  her 
mit,  brown-draped,  in  hood  and  mantle ;  staff  in  hand,  he 
trudges  along  the  dusty  road.  And  down,  too,  from  his 
native  lair  among  the  pigs  and  the  poultry,  comes  the 
black-eyed,  black-skinned,  matted-haired  urchin,  who  makes 
mud  pies  under  the  tufted  ilex-trees  at  Ponte  a  Moriano, 
and  swears  at  the  hermit. 

They  come  !  they  come  !  From  mountain-sides  border 
ing  the  broad  road  along  the  Serchio — mountains  dotted 
with  bright  homesteads,  each  gleaming  out  of  its  own 
cypress-grove,  olive-patch,  canebrake,  and  vine-arbor,  un 
der  which  the  children  play — they  come  from  solitary 
hovels,  hung  up,  as  it  were,  in  mid-air,  over  gloomy  ra 
vines,  scored  and  furrowed  with  red  earth,  down  which  dark 
torrents  dash  and  spray. 

They  come  t  they  come !  these  Tuscan  peasants,  a  trifle 
too  fond  of  holiday-keeping,  like  their  betters — but  what 
would  you  have?  The  land  is  fertile,  and  corn  and  wine 
and  oil  and  rosy  flowering  almonds  grow  almost  as  of 
themselves.  They  come — tens  and  tens  of  miles  away, 
from  out  the  deep  shadows  of  primeval  chestnut-woods, 
clothing  the  flanks  of  rugged  Apennines  with  emerald 
draperies.  They  come — through  parting  rocks,  bordering 
nameless  streams — cool,  delicious  waters,  over  which  bend 
fig,  peach,  and  plum,  delicate  ferns  and  unknown  flowers. 
They  come — from  hamlets  and  little  burghs,  gathered  be 
side  lush  pastures,  where  tiny  rivulets  trickle  over  fresh 
turf  and  fragrant  herbs,  lulling  the  ear  Avith  softest  echoes. 

They  come — dark-eyed  mothers  and  smiling  daughters, 
decked  with  gold  pins,  flapping  Leghorn  hats,  lace  veils  or 


LUCCA.  7 

snowy  handkerchiefs  gathered  about  their  heads,  coral 
beads,  and  golden  crosses  as  big  as  shields,  upon  their 
necks — escorted  by  lover,  husband,  or  father — a  flower  be 
hind  his  ear,  a  slouch  hat  on  his  head,  a  jacket  thrown  over 
one  arm,  every  man  shouldering  a  red  umbrella,  although 
to  doubt  the  weather  to-day  is  absolute  sacrilege  ! 

Carts  clatter  by  every  moment,  drawn  by  swift  Marem- 
ma  nags,  gay  with  brass  harness,  tinkling  bells,  and  tassels 
of  crimson  on  reins  and  frontlet. 

The  carts  are  laden  with  peasants  (nine,  perhaps,  ranged 
three  abreast) — treason  to  the  gallant  animal  that,  tossing 
its  little  head,  bravely  struggles  with  the  cruel  load.  A 
priest  is  stuck  in  bodkin  among  his  flock — a  priest  who 
leers  and  jests  between  pinches  of  snuff,  and  who,  save  for 
his  seedy  black  coat,  knee-breeches,  worsted  stockings, 
shoe-buckles,  clerical  hat,  and  smoothly-shaven  chin,  is 
rougher  than  a  peasant  himself. 

Riders  on  Elba  ponies,  with  heavy  cloaks  (for  the  early 
morning,  spite  of  its  glories,  is  chill),  spur  by,  adding  to 
the  dust  raised  by  the  carts. 

Genteel  flies  and  hired  carriages  with  two  horses,  and 
hood  and  foot-board — pass,  repass,  and  out-race  each  other. 
These  flies  and  carriages  are  crammed  with  bailiffs  from 
the  neighboring  villas,  shopkeepers,  farmers,  and  small 
proprietors.  Donkeys,  too,  there  are  in  plenty,  carrying 
men  bigger  than  themselves  (under  protest,  be  it  observed, 
for  here,  as  in  all  countries,  your  donkey,  though  marked 
for  persecution,  suffers  neither  willingly  nor  in  silence). 
Begging  friars,  tanned  like  red  Indians,  glide  by,  hot  and 
grimy  (thank  Heaven  !  not  many  now,  for  "  New  Italy  " 
has  sacked  most  of  the  convent  rookeries  and  dispersed  the. 
rooks),  with  wallets  on  their  shoulders,  to  carry  back  such 
plunder  as  can  be  secured,  to  far-off  convents  and  lonely 
churches,  folded  up  tightly  in  forest  fastnesses. 

All  are  hurrying  onward  with  what  haste  they  may,  to 


8  THE  ITALIANS. 

reach  the  city  of  Lucca,  while  broad  shadows  from  the  tall 
mountains  on  either  hand  still  fall  athwart  the  roads,  and 
cool  morning  air  breathes  up  from  the  rushing  Serchio." 

The  Serchio — a  noble  river,  yet  willful  as  a  mountain- 
torrent — flows  round  the  embattled  walls  of  Lucca,  and 
falls  into  the  Mediterranean  below  Pisa.  It  is  calm  now, 
on  this  day  of  the  great  festival,  sweeping  serenely  .by 
rocky  capes,  and  rounding  into  fragrant  bays,  where  over 
arching  boughs  droop  and  feather.  But  there  is  a  sullen 
look  about  its  current,  that  tells  how  wicked  it  can  be,  this 
Serchio,  lashed  into  madness  by  winter  storms,  and  the 
overflowing  of  the  water-gates  above,  among  the  high 
Apennines — at  the  Abbetone  at  San  Marcello,  or  at  windy, 
ice-bound  Pracchia. 

How  fair  are  thy  banks,  O  mountain-bordered  Serchio ! 
How  verdant  with  near  wood  and  neighboring  forest ! 
How  gay  with  cottage  groups — open-galleried  and  gar 
landed  with  bunches  of  golden  maize  and  vine-branches — 
all  laughing  in  the  sun  !  The  wine-shops,  too,  along  the 
road,  how  tempting,  with  snowy  table-cloths  spread  upon 
dressers  under  shady  arbors  of  lemon  -  trees ;  pleasant 
odors  from  the  fry  cooking  in  the  stove,  mixing  with  the 
perfume  of  the  waxy  flowers  !  Dear  to  the  nostrils  of  the 
passers-by  are  these  odors.  They  snuff  them  up — onions, 
fat,  and  macaroni,  with  delight.  They  can  scarcely  resist 
stopping  once  for  all  here,  instead  of  waiting  for  their 
journey's  end  to  eat  at  Lucca. 

But  the  butterflies — and  they  are  many — are  wiser  in 
their  generation.  The  butterflies  have  a  festival  of  their 
own  to-day.  They  do  not  wait  for  any  city.  They  are 
fixed  to  no  spot.  They  can  hold  their  festival  anywhere 
under  the  blue  sky,  in  the  broad  sunshine. 

See  how  they  dance  among  the  flowers  !  Be  it  spikes 
of  wild-lavender,  or  yellow  down  within  the  Canterbury 
bell,  or  horn  of  purple  cyclamens,  or  calyx  of  snowy  myrtle. 


LUCCA.  9 

the  soft  bosom  of  tall  lilies  or  glowing  petals  of  red  cloves 
— nothing  comes  amiss  to  the  butterflies.  They  are  citi 
zens  of  the  world,  and  can  feast  wherever  fancy  leads  them. 
Meanwhile,  on  comes  the  crowd,  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  city  of  their  pilgrimage,  laughing,  singing,  talking, 
smoking.  Your  Italian  peasant  must  sleep  or  smoke,  ex 
cepting  when  he  plays '  at  morra  (one,  two,  three,  and 
away !).  Then  he  puts  his  pipe  into  his  pocket.  The 
women  are  conversing  in  deep  voices,  in  the  patois  of  the 
various  villages.  The  men,  more  silent,  search  out  who  is 
fairest — to  lead  her  on  the  way,  to  kneel  beside  her  at  the 
shrine,  and,  most  prized  of  all,  to  conduct  her  home.  Each 
village  has  its  belle,  each  belle  her  circle  of  admirers. 
Belles  and  beaux  all  have  their  own  particular  plan  of  di 
version  for  the  day.  For  is  it  not  a  great  day  ?  And  is  it 
not  stipulated  in  many  of  the  marriage  contracts  among 
the  mountain  tribes  that  the  husband  must,  under  a  money 
penalty,  conduct  his  wife  to  the  festival  of  the  Holy  Counte 
nance  once  at  least  in  four  years  ?  The  programme  is 
this :  First,  they  enter  the  cathedral,  kneel  at  the  glisten 
ing  shrine  of  the  black  crucifix,  kiss  its  golden  slipper,  and 
hear  mass.  Then  they  will  grasp  such  goods  as  the  gods 
provide  them,  in  street,  cafe,  eating-house,  or  day  theatre ; 
make  purchases  in  the  shops  and  booths,  and  stroll  upon 
the  ramparts.  Later,  when  the  sun  sinks  westward  over 
the  mountains,  and  the  deep  canopy  of  twilight  falls,  they 
will  return  by  the  way  that  they  have  come,  until  the  com 
ing  year. 

Within  the  city,  from  before  daybreak,  church-bells — 
and  Lucca  abounds  in  belfries  fretted  tier  upon  tier,  with 
galleries  of  delicate  marble  colonnettes,  all  ablaze  in  the 
sunshine — have  pealed  out  merrily. 

Every  church-door,  draped  with  gold  tissue  and  silken 
stuffs,  more  or  less  splendid,  is  thrown  wide  open.  Every 


10  THE  ITALIANS. 

shop  is  closed,  save  cafes,  hotels,  and  tobacco-shops  (where, 
by  command  of  the  King  of  New  Italy,  infamous  cigars 
are  sold).  Eating-tables  are  spread  at  the  corners  of  the 
streets  and  under  the  trees  in  the  piazza,  benches  are 
ranged  everywhere  where  benches  can  stand.  The  streets 
are  filling  every  moment  as  fresh  multitudes  press  through 
the  city  gates — those  grand  old  gates,  where  the  marble 
lions  of  Lucca  keep  guard,  looking  toward  the  mountains. 
For  a  carriage  to  pass  anywhere  in  the  streets  would 
be  impossible,  so  tightly  are  flapping  Leghorn  hats,  and 
veils,  snowy  handkerchiefs,  and  red  caps  and  brigand  hats, 
packed  together.  Bells  ring,  and  there  are  waftings  of 
military  music  borne  through  the  air.  Trumpet-calls  at 
the  different  barracks  answer  to  each  other.  Cannons  are 
fired.  Each  man,  woman,  and  child  shouts,  screams,  and 
laughs.  All  down  the  dark,  cavernous  streets,  in  the  great 
piazza,  at  the  sindaco's,  at  college,  at  club,  public  offices, 
and  hotels,  at  the  grand  old  palaces,  untouched  since  the 
middle  ages — the  glory  of  the  city — at  every  house,  great 
and  small — flutter  gaudy  draperies ;  crimson,  amber,  vio 
let,  and  gold,  according  to  purse  and  condition,  either  of 
richest  brocade,  or  of  Eastern  stuffs  wrought  in  gold  and 
needle-work,  or — the  family  carpet  or  bed-furniture  hung 
out  for  show.  Banners  wave  from  every  house-top  and 
tower,  the  Itattan  tricolor  and  the  Savoy  cross,  white,  on 
a  red  ground ;  flowers  and  garlands  are  wreathed  on  the 
fronts  of  the  stern  old  walls.  If  peasants,  and  shopkeep 
ers,  and  monks,  priests,  beggars,  and  hoi  pollol  generally, 
possess  the  pavement,  overhead  every  balcony,  gallery, 
terrace,  and  casement,  is  filled  with  company,  representa 
tives  of  the  historic  families  of  Lucca,  the  Manfredi,  Pos- 
senti,  Navascoes,  Bernardini,  dal  Portico,  Bocella,  Manzi, 
da  Gia,  Orsetti,  Ruspoli — feudal  names  dear  to  native  ears. 
The  noble  marquis,  or  his  excellency  the  count,  lord  of 
broad  acres  on  the  plains,  or  principalities  in  the  mountains, 


LUCCA.  11 

or  of  hoarded  wealth  at  the  National  Bank — is  he  not  Luc- 
ehese  also  to  the  backbone?  And  does  he  not  delight  in 
the  festival  as  keenly  as  that  half-naked  beggar,  who  rat 
tles  his  box  for  alms,  with  a  broad  grin  on  his  dirty  face  ? 

Resplendent  are  the  ladies  in  the  balconies,  dressed  in 
their  best — like  bands  of  fluttering  ribbon  stretched  across 
the  sombre-fronted  palaces;  aristocratic  daughters,  and 
dainty  consorts.  They  are  not  chary  of  their  charms. 
They  laugh,  fan  themselves,  lean  over  sculptured  balus 
trades,  and  eye  the  crowded  streets,  talking  with  lip  and 
fan,  eye  and  gesture. 

In  the  long,  narrow  street  of  San  Simone,  behind  the 
cathedral  of  San  Martino,  stand  the  two  Guinigi  Palaces. 
They  are  face  to  face.  One  is  ditto  of  the  other.  Each  is 
in  the  florid  style  of  Venetian-Gothic,  dating  from  the  be 
ginning  of  the  fourteenth  century.  Both  were  built  by 
Paolo  Guinigi,  head  of  the  illustrious  house  of  that  name, 
for  forty  years  general  and  tyrant  of  the  Republic  of  Luc 
ca.  Both  palaces  bear  his  arms,  graven  on  marble  tablets 
beside  the  entrance.  Both  are  of  brick,  now  dulled  and 
mellowed  into  a  reddish  white.  Both  have  walls  of  enor 
mous  thickness.  The  windows  of  the  upper  stories — quad 
ruple  casements  divided,  Venetian-like,  by  twisted  pillar- 
ettes  richly  carved — are  faced  and  mullioned  with  marble. 
The  lower  windows  (mere  square  apertures)  are  barred 
with  iron.  The  arched  portals  opening  to  the  streets  are 
low,  dark,  and  narrow.  The  inner  courts  gloomy,  damp, 
and  prison-like.  Brass  ornaments,  sockets,  rings,  and  torch- 
holders  of  iron,  sculptured  emblems,  crests,  and  cognizances 
in  colored  marble,  are  let  into  the  outer  walls.  In  all  else, 
ornamentation  is  made  subservient  to  defense.  These  are 
city  fortresses  rather  than  ancestral  palaces.  They  were 
constructed  to  resist  either  attack  or  siege. 

Rising  out  of  the  overhanging  roof  (supported  on  wood 
en  rafters)  of  the  largest  and  most  stately  of  the  twapal- 


12  THE  ITALIANS. 

aces,  where  twenty-three  groups  of  clustered  casements, 
linked  by  slender  pillars,  extend  in  a  line  along  a  single 
story — rises  a  mediaeval  tower  of  defense  of  many  stories. 
Each  story  is  pierced  by  loop-holes  for  firing  into  the  street 
below.  On  the  machicolated  summit  is  a  square  platform, 
where  in  the  course  of  many  peaceful  ages  a  bay-tree  has 
come  to  grow  of  a  goodly  size.  About  this  bay-tree  tan 
gled  weeds  and  tufted  grasses  wave  in  the  wind.  Below, 
here  and  there,  patches  of  blackened  moss  or  yellow  lichen, 
a  branch  of  mistletoe  or  a  bunch  of  fern,  break  the  lines 
of  the  mediaeval  brickwork.  Sprays  of  wild-ivy  cling  to 
the  empty  loop-holes,  through  which  the  blue  sky  peeps. 

The  lesser  of  the  two  palaces — the  one  on  the  right 
hand  as  you  ascend  the  street  of  San  Simone  coming  from 
the  cathedral — is  more  decorated  to-day  than  any  other  in 
Lucca.  A  heavy  sea  of  Leghorn  hats  and  black  veils,  with 
male  accompaniments,  is  crowded  beneath.  They  stare 
upward  and  murmur  with  delight.  Gold  and  silver  stuffs, 
satin  and  taffeta,  striped  brocades,  and  rich  embroideries, 
flutter  from  the  clustered  casement  up  to  the  overhanging 
roof.  There  are  many  flags  (one  with  a  coat-of-arms,  am 
ber  and  purple  on  a  gold  ground)  blazing  in  the  sunshine. 
The  grim  brick  fagade  is  festooned  with  wreaths  of  fresh 
ly-plucked  roses.  Before  the  low-arched  entrance  on  the 
pavement  there  is  a  carpet  of  flower-petals  fashioned  into 
a  monogram,  bearing  the  letters  "  M.  N."  Just  within  the 
entrance  stands  a  porter,  leaning  on  a  gold  staff,  as  im 
movable  in  aspect  as  are  the  mediaeval  walls  that  close  in 
behind  him.  A  badge  or  baldric  is  passed  across  his  chest ; 
he  is  otherwise  so  enveloped  with  gold-lace,  embroidery, 
buttons,  trencher,  and  cocked-hat,  that  the  whole  inner 
man  is  absorbed,  not  to  say  invisible.  Beside  him,  in  the 
livery  of  the  house,  tall  valets  grin,  lounge,  and  ogle  the 
passers-by  (wearers  of  Leghorn  hats,  and  veils,  and  white 
head-gear  generally).  This  particular  Guinigi  Palace  be- 


LUCCA.  13 

longs  to  Count  Mario  Nobili.  He  bought  it  cf  the  Mar- 
chesa  Guinigi,  who  lives  opposite.  Nobili  is  the  richest 
young  man  in  Lucca.  No  one  calls  upon  him  for  help  in 
vain ;  but,  let  it  be  added,  no  one  offends  him  with  im 
punity.  When  Nobili  first  came  to  Lucca,  the  old  families 
looked  coldly  at  him,  his  nobility  being  of  very  recent 
date.  It  was  bestowed  on  his  father,  a  successful  banker 
— some  said  usurer,  some  said  worse — by  the  Grand-duke 
Leopold,  for  substantial  assistance  toward  his  pet  hobby — 
the  magnificent  road  that  zigzags  up  the  mountain-side  to 
Fiesole  from  Florence. 

But  young  Nobili  soon  conquered  Lucchese  prejudice. 
Now  he  is  well  received  by  all — all  save  the  Marchesa  Gui 
nigi.  She  was,  and  is  at  this  time,  still  irreconcilable. 
Nobili  stands  in  the  central  window  of  his  palace.  He 
leans  out  over  the  street,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth.  A  servant 
beside  him  flings  down  from  time  to  time  some  silver  coin 
among  Leghorn  hats  and  the  beggars,  who  scramble  for  it 
on  the  pavement.  Nobili's  eyes  beam  as  the  populace  look 
up  and  cheer  him:  "Long  live  Count  Nobili!  Evviva!" 
He  takes  off  his  hat  and  bows;  more  silver  coin  comes 
clattering  down  on  the  pavement;  there  are  fresh  evvivas, 
fresh  bows,  and  more  scramblers  cover  the  street.  "  No 
one  like  Nobili,"  the  people  say;  "so  affable,  so  open- 
handed — yes,  and  so  clever,  too,  for  has  he  not  traveled, 
and  does  he  not  know  the  world  ?  " 

Beside  Count  Nobili  some  jeunesse  doree  of  his  own 
age  (sons  of  the  best  houses  in  Lucca)  also  lean  over  the 
Venetian  casements.  Like  the  liveried  giants  at  the  en 
trance,  these  laugh,  ogle,  chaff,  and  criticise  the  wearers  of 
Leghorn  hats,  black  veils,  and  white  head-gear,  freely. 
They  smoke,  and  drink  liqueurs  and  sherbet,  and  crack 
sugar-plums  out  of  crystal  cup  on  silver  plate?,  set  on  em 
bossed  trays  placed  beside  them. 

The  profession  of  these  young  men  is  idleness.     They 


14  THE  ITALIANS. 

excel  in  it.  Let  us  pause  for  a  moment  and  ask  what  they 
do — this  jeunesse  doree,  to  whom  the  sacred  mission  is 
committed  of  regenerating  an  heroic  people  ?  They  could 
teach  Ovid  "  the  art  of  love."  It  comes  to  them  in  the  air 
they  breathe.  They  do  not  love  their  neighbor  as  them 
selves,  but  they  love  their  neighbors'  wives.  Nothing  is 
holy  to  them.  "  All  for  love,  and  the  world  well  lost,"  is 
their  motto.  They  can  smile  in  their  best  friend's  face, 
weep  with  him,  rejoice  with  him,  eat  with  him,  drink  with 
him,  and — betray  him;  they  do  this  every  day,  and  do  it 
well.  They  can  also  lie  artistically,  dressing  up  imaginary 
details  with  great  skill,  gamble  and  sing,  swear,  and  talk 
scandal.  They  can  lead  a  graceful,  dissolute,  far  niente 
life,  loll  in  carriages,  and  be  whirled  round  for  hours,  say 
the  Florence  Cascine,  the  Roman  Pincio,  and  the  park  at 
Milan — smoking  the  while,  and  raising  their  hats  to  the 
ladies.  They  can  trot  a  well-broken  horse — not  too  fresh, 
on  a  hard  road,  and  are  wonderful  in  ruining  his  legs.  A 
very  few  can  drive  what  they  call  a  stage  (A.nglic&,  drag) 
with  grave  and  well-educated  wheelers,  on  a  very  straight 
road — such  as  do  this  are  looked  upon  as  heroes — shoot  a 
hare  sitting,  also  torn-tits  and  sparrows.  But  they  can 
neither  hunt,  nor  fish,  nor  ro\v.  They  are  ready  of  tongue 
and  easy  of  offense.  They  can  fight  duels  (with  swords), 
generally  a  harmless  exercise.  They  can  dance.  They  can 
hold  strong  opinions  on  subjects  on  which  they  are  crassly 
ignorant,  and  yield  neither  to  fact  nor  argument  where 
their  mediaeval  usages  are  concerned  All  this  the  golden 
youths  of  Young  Italy  can  do,  and  do  it  well. 

Yet  from  such  stuff  as  this  are  to  come  the  future  minis 
ters,  prefects,  deputies,  financiers,  diplomatists,  and  sena 
tors,  who  are  to  regenerate  the  world's  old  mistress !  Alas, 
poor  Italy ! 

The  Guinigi  Palace  opposite  forms  a  sinking  contrast 
to  Count  Nobili's  abode.  It  is  as  silent  as  the  grave. 


LUCCA.  15 

Every  shutter  is  closed.  The  great  wooden  door  to  the 
street  is  locked ;  a  heavy  chain  is  drawn  across  it.  The 
Murchesa  Guinigi  has  strictly  commanded  that  it  should  be 
so.  She  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  festival  of  the 
Holy  Countenance.  She  will  take  no  part  in  it  whatever. 
Indeed,  she  has  come  to  Lucca  on  purpose  to  see  that  her 
orders  are  obeyed  to  the  very  letter,  else  that  rascal  of  a 
secretary  might  have  hung  out  something  in  spite  of  her. 
The  marchesa,  who  has  been  for  many  years  a  widow,  and 
is  absolute  possesssor  of  the  palace  and  lands,  calls  herself 
a  liberal.  But  she  is  in  practice  the  most  thorough-going 
aristocrat  alive.  In  one  respect  she  is  a  liberal.  She  de 
spises  priests,  laughs  at  miracles,  and  detests  festivals. 
"  A  loss  of  time,  and,  if  of  time,  of  money,"  she  says.  If  the 
peasants  and  the  people  complain  of  the  taxes,  and  won't 
work  six  days  in  the  week,  "  Let  them  starve,"  says  the 
marchesa — "  let  them  starve  ;  so  much  the  better !  " 

In  her  opinion,  the  legend  of  the  Holy  Countenance  is 
a  lie,  got  up  by  priests  for  money  ;  so  she  comes  into  the 
city  from  Corellia,  and  shuts  up  her  palace,  publicly  to 
show  her  opinion.  As  far  as  she  is  concerned,  she  believes 
neither  in  St.  Nicodemus  nor  in  idleness. 

A  good  deal  of  this,  be  it  said,  en  passant,  is  sheer  ob 
stinacy.  The  marchesa  is  obstinate  to  folly,  and  full  of 
contradictions.  Besides,  there  is  another  powerful  motive 
that  influences  her — she  hates  Count  Nobili.  Not  that  he 
has  ever  done  any  thing  personally  to  offend  her;  of  this 
he  is  incapable — indeed,  he  has  his  own  reasons  for  desiring 
passionately  to  be  on  good  terms  with  her — but  he  has,  in 
her  opinion,  injured  her  by  purchasing  the  second  Guinigi 
Palace.  That  she  should  have  been  obliged  to  sell  one  of 
her  ancestral  palaces  at  all  is  to  her  a  bitter  misfortune ; 
but  that  any  one  connected  with  trade  should  possess  what 
had  been  inherited  generation  after  generation  by  the 
Guinigi,  is  intolerable. 


1C  THE  ITALIANS. 

That  a  parvenu ,  the  son  of  a  banker,  should  live  oppo 
site  to  her,  that  he  should  abound  in  money,  which  he  flings 
about  recklessly,  while  she  can  with  difficulty  eke  out  the 
slender  rents  from  the  greatly-reduced  patrimony  of  the 
Guinigi,  is  more  than  she  can  bear.  His  popularity  and 
his  liberality  (and  she  cannot  come  to  Lucca  without  hear 
ing  of  both),  even  that  comely  young  face  of  his,  which  she 
sees  when  she  passes  the  club  on  the  way  to  her  afternoon 
drive  on  the  ramparts,  are  dire  offenses  in  her  eyes.  What 
ever  Count  Nobili  does,  she  (the  Marchesa  Guinigi)  will  do 
the  reverse.  He  has  opened  his  house  for  the  festival. 
Hers  shall  be  closed.  She  is  thoroughly  exceptional,  how 
ever,  in  such  conduct.  Every  one  in  Lucca  save  herself, 
rich  and  poor,  noble  and  villain,  join  heart  and  soul  in  the 
national  festival.  Every  one  lays  aside  on  this  auspicious 
day  differences  of  politics,  family  feuds,  and  social  animosi 
ties.  Even  enemies  join  hands  and  kneel  side  by  side  at 
the  same  altar.  It  is  the  mediaeval  "  God's  truce  "  cele 
brated  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

It  is  now  eleven  o'clock.  A  great  deal  of  sausage  and 
garlic,  washed  down  by  new  wine  and  light  beer,  has  been 
by  this  time  consumed  in  eating-shops  and  on  street  tables  ; 
much  coffee,  liqueurs,  cake,  and  bonbons,  inside  the  palaces. 

Suddenly  all  the  church-bells,  which  have  rung  out 
since  daybreak  like  mad,  stop ;  only  the  deep-toned  cathe 
dral-bell  booms  out  from  its  snowy  campanile  in  half-minute 
strokes.  There  is  an  instant  lull,  the  din  and  clatter  of  the 
streets  cease,  the  crowd  surges,  separates,  and  disappears, 
the  palace  windows  and  balconies  empty  themselves,  the 
street  forms  are  vacant.  The  procession  in  honor  of  the 
Holy  Countenance  is  forming;  ever}'-  one  has  rushed  off  to 
the  cathedral. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   LUCCA. 

SAN  MARTISTO,  the  cathedral  of  Lucca,  stands  on  one 
side  of  a  small  piazza  behind. the  principal  square.  At  the 
first  glance,  its  venerable  aspect,  vast  proportions,  and  dig 
nity  of  outline,  do  not  sufficiently  seize  upon  the  imagina 
tion  ;  but,  as  the  eye  travels  over  the  elaborate  fagade, 
formed  by  successive  galleries  supported  by  truncated  pil 
lars,  these  galleries  in  their  turn  resting  on  clustered  col 
umns  of  richest  sculpture  forming  the  triple  portals — the 
fine  inlaid  work,  statues,  bass-relief,  arabesques  of  fruit, 
foliage,  and  quaint  animals — the  dome,  and,  above  all,  the 
campanile — light  and  airy  as  a  dream,  springing  upward 
on  open  arches  where  the  sun  burns  hotly — the  eye  comes 
to  understand  what  a  glorious  Gothic  monument  it  is. 

The  three  portals  are  now  open.  From  the  lofty  atri 
um  raised  on  broad  marble  steps,  with  painted  ceiling  and 
sculptured  walls — at  one  end  a  bubbling  fountain  falling 
into  a  marble  basin,  at  the  other  an  arched  gate-way  lead 
ing  into  grass-grown  cloisters — the  vast  nave  is  visible  from 
end  to  end.  This  nave  is  absolutely  empty.  Every  thing 
tells  of  expectation,  of  anticipation.  The  mighty  Lombard 
pillars  on  either  side — supporting  a  triforium  gallery  of 
circular  arches  and  slender  pillars  of  marble  fretwork,  deli 
cate  as  lace — are  wreathed  and  twined  with  red  taffetas 


18  TIIE   ITALIANS. 

bound  with  golden  bands.  The  gallery  of  the  triforium  it 
self  is  draped  with  arras  and  rich  draperies.  Each  dainty 
column  is  decked  with  flags  and  pennons.  The  aisles  and 
transepts  blaze  with  gorgeous  hangings.  Overhead  saints, 
prophets,  and  martyrs,  standing  immovable  in  the  tinted 
glories  of  the  stained  windows,  fling  broad  patches  of  pur 
ple,  emerald,  and  yellow,  upon  the  intaglio  pavement. 

Along  the  nave  (a  hedge,  as  it  were,  on  either  side)  are 
hung  curtains  of  cloth  cf  gold. 

The  high  altar,  inclosed  by  a  balustrade  of  colored  mar 
ble  raised  en  steps  richly  carpeted,  glitters  with  gemmed 
chalices  and  crosses.  Behind,  countless  wax-lights  illumi 
nate  the  rich  frescoes  of  the  tribune.  The  Chapel  of  the 
Holy  Countenance  (midway  up  the  nave),  inclosed  by  a 
gilded  net-work,  is  a  dazzling  mountain  of  light  flung  from 
a  thousand  golden  sconces.  A  black  figure  as  large  as  life 
rests  upon  the  altar.  It  is  stretched  upon  a  cross.  The 
eyes  are  white  and  glassy ;  the  thorn-crowned  head  leans 
on  one  side.  The  body  is  enveloped  in  a  damascened  robe 
spangled  with  jewels.  This  robe  descends  to  the  feet, 
which  are  cased  in  shoes  of  solid  gold.  The  right  foot 
rests  on  a  sacramental  cup  glittering  with  gems.  On  either 
side  are  angels,  with  arms  extended.  One  holds  a  massive 
sceptre,  the  other  the  silver  keys  of  the  city  of  Lucca. 

All  waits.  The  bride,  glorious  in  her  garment  of  nee 
dle-work,  waits.  The  bridegroom  waits.  The  sacramental 
banquet  is  spread ;  the  guests  are  bidden.  All  waits  the 
moment  when  the  multitude,  already  buzzing  without  at 
the  western  entrance,  shall  spread  themselves  over  the  mo 
saic  floor,  and  throng  each  chapel,  altar,  gallery,  and  tran 
sept — when  anthems  of  praise  shall  peal  from  the  double 
doors  of  the  painted  organ,  and  holy  rites  give  a  mystic 
language  to  the  sacred  symbols  around. 

Meanwhile  the  procession  flashes  from  street  to  street. 
Banners  flutter  in  the  hot  mid-day  air,  tall  crucifixes  and 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  LUCCA.  19 

golden  crosses  reach  to  the  upper  stories.  In  the  pauses 
the  low  hum  of  the  chanted  canticles  is  caught  up  here  and 
there  along  the  line — now  the  monks — then  the  canons 
with  a  nasal  twang — then  the  laity. 

There  are  the  judges,  twelve  in  number,  robed  in  black, 
scarlet,  and  ermine,  their  broad  crimson  sashes  sweeping 
the  pavement.  The  gonfaloniere — that  ancient  title  of 
republican  freedom  still  remaining — walks  behind,  attired 
in  antique  robes.  Next  appear  the  municipality — wealthy, 
oily-faced  citizens,  at  this  moment  much  overcome  by  the 
heat.  Following  these  are  the  Lucchese  nobles,  walking 
two-and-two,  in  a  precedence  not  prescribed  by  length  of 
pedigree,  but  of  age.  Next  comes  the  prefect  of  the  city; 
at  his  side  the  general  in  command  of  the  garrison  of  Luc 
ca,  escorted  by  a  brilliant  staff.  Each  bears  a  tall  lighted 
torch. 

The  law  and  the  army  are  closely  followed  by  the  church. 
All  are  there,  t\vo-and-two — from  the  youngest  deacon  to 
the  oldest  canon — in  his  robe  of  purple  silk  edged  with  gold 
— wearing  a  white  mitre.  The  church  is  generally  corpu 
lent  ;  these  dignitaries  are  no  exception. 

Amid  a  cloud  of  incense  walks  the  archbishop — a  tall, 
stately  man,  in  the  prime  of  life — under  a  canopy  of  crim 
son  silk  resting  on  gold  staves,  borne  over  him  by  four 
canons  habited  in  purple.  He  moves  along,  a  perfect  mass 
of  brocade,  lace,  and  gold — literally  aflame  in  the  sunshine. 
His  mitred  head  is  bent  downward ;  his  eyes  are  half  closed ; 
his  lips  move.  In  his  hands — which  are  raised  almost  level 
with  his  face,  and  reverently  covered  by  his  vestments — 
he  bears  a  gemmed  vessel  containing  the  Host,  to  be  laid 
by-and-by  on  the  altar  of  the  Holy  Countenance.  All  the 
church-bells  are  now  ringing  furiously.  Cannons  fire,  and 
military  bands  drown  the  low  hum  of  the  chanting.  Every 
head  is  uncovered — many,  specially  women,  are  prostrate 
on  the  stones. 


20  THE  ITALIANS. 

Arrived  at  the  basilica  of  San  Frediano,  the  procession 
halts  under  the  Byzantine  mosaic  on  a  gold  ground,  over 
the  entrance.  The  entire  chapter  is  assembled  before  the 
open  doors.  They  kneel  before  the  archbishop  carrying 
the  Host.  Again  there  is  a  halt  before  the  snowy  fa9ade 
of  the  church  of  San  Michele,  pillared  to  the  summit  with 
slender  columns  of  Carrara  marble — on  the  topmost  pin 
nacle  a  colossal  statue  of  the  archangel,  in  golden  bronze, 
the  outstretched  wings  glistening  against  the  turquoise 
sky.  Here  the  same  ceremonies  are  repeated  as  at  the 
church  of  San  Frediano.  The  archbishop  halts,  the  chant 
ing  ceases j  the  Host  is  elevated,  the  assembled  priests 
adore  it,  kneeling  without  the  portal. 

It  is  one  o'clock  before  the  archbishop  is  enthroned 
•within  the  cathedral.  The  chapter,  robed  in  red  and  pur 
ple,  are  ranged  behind  him  in  the  tribune  at  the  back  of 
the  high  altar,  the  grand  old  frescoes  hovering  over  them. 
The  secular  dignitaries  are  seated  on  benches  below  the 
altar-steps.  Palchi  (boxes),  on  either  side  of  the  nave, 
are  filled  with  Lucchese  ladies,  dark-haired,  dark-eyed, 
olive-skinned,  backed  by  the  crimson  draperies  with  which 
the  nave  is  dressed. 

A  soft  fluttering  of  fans  agitates  feathers,  lace,  and  rib 
bons.  Fumes  of  incense  mix  -with  the  scent  of  strong 
perfumes.  Not  the  smallest  attention  is  paid  by  the 
ladies  to  the  mass  which  is  celebrating  at  the  high  altar 
and  the  altar  of  the  Holy  Countenance.  Their  jeweled 
hands  hold  no  missal,  their  knees  are  unbent,  their  lips 
utter  no  prayer.  Instead,  there  are  bright  glances  from 
lustrous  eyes,  and  whispered  words  to  favored  golden 
youths  (without  religion,  of  course — what  has  a  golden 
youth  to  do  with  religion  ?)  who  have  insinuated  themselves 
within  the  ladies'  seats,  or  lean  over,  gazing  at  them  with 
upturned  faces. 

Peal  after  peal  of  musical  thunder  rolls  from  the  double 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  LUCCA.  21 

organs.  It  is  caught  up  by  the  two  orchestras  placed  in 
gilt  galleries  on  either  side  of  the  nave.  A  vocal  chorus 
on  this  side  responds  to  exquisite  voices  on  that.  Now  a 
flute  warbles  a  luscious  solo,  then  a  flageolet.  A  grand 
barytone  bursts  forth,  followed  by  a  tenor  soft  as  the  notes 
of  a  nightingale,  accompanied  by  a  boy  on  the  violin. 
Then  there  is  the  crash  of  many  hundred  voices,  with  the 
muffled  roar  of  two  organs.  It  is  the  Gloria  in  Excelsis. 
As  the  music  rolls  down  the  pillared  nave  out  into  the 
crowded  piazza,  where  it  dies  away  in  harmonious  mur 
murs,  an  iron  cresset,  suspended  from  the  vaulted  ceiling 
of  the  nave,  filled  with  a  bundle  of  flax,  is  fired.  The  flax 
blazes  for  a  moment,  then  passes  away  in  a  shower  of  glit 
tering  sparks  that  glitter  upon  the  inlaid  floor.  Sic  tran 
sit  gloria  mundi  is  the  motto.  (Now  the  lighting  of  this 
flax  is  a  special  privilege  accorded  to  the  Archbishop  of 
Lucca  by  the  pope,  and  jealously  guarded  by  him.) 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   THREE    WITCHES. 

MAISTY  carriages  wait  outside  the  cathedral,  in  the  shade 
near  the  fountain.  The  fountain — gushing  upward  joyous 
ly  in  the  beaming  sunshine  out  of  a  red-marble  basin — is 
just  beyond  the  atrium,  and  visible  through  the  arches  on 
that  side.  Beyond  the  fountain,  terminating  the  piazza, 
there  is  a  high  wall.  This  wall  supports  a  broad  marble 
terrace,  with  heavy  balustrades,  extending  from  the  back 
of  a  mediaeval  palace.  Over  the  wall  green  vine-branches 
trail,  sweeping  the  pavement,  like  ringlets  that  have  fallen 
out  of  curl.  This  wall  and  terrace  communicate  with  the 
church  of  San  Giovanni,  an  ancient  Lombard  basilica  on 
that  side.  Under  the  shadow  of  the  heavy  roof  some  girls 
are  trying  to  waltz  to  the  sacred  music  from  the  cathedral. 
After  a  few  turns  they  find  it  difficult,  and  leave  off.  The 
men  in  livery,  waiting  along  with  the  carriages,  laugh  at 
them  lazily.  The  girls  retreat,  and  group  themselves  on 
the  steps  of  a  deeply-arched  doorway  with  a  bass-relief  of 
the  Virgin  and  angels,  leading  into  the  church,  and  talk  in 
low  voices. 

A  ragged  boy  from  the  Garfagnana,  with  a  tray  of 
plaster  heads  of  Victor  Emmanuel  and  Garibaldi,  has  put 
down  his  wares,  and  is  turning  wheels  upon  the  pavement, 
before  the  servants,  for  a  penny.  An  old  man  pulls  out 


THE  THREE  WITCHES.  23 

from  under  his  cloak  a  dancing  dog,  with  crimson  collar 
and  bells,  and  collects  a  little  crowd  under  the  atrium  of 
the  cathedral.  A  soldier,  touched  with  compassion,  takes 
a  crust  from  his  pocket  to  reward  the  dancing  dog,  which, 
overcome  by  the  temptation,  drops  on  his  four  legs,  runs 
to  him,  and  devours  it,  for  which  delinquency  the  old  man 
beats  him  severely.  His  yells  echo  loudly  among  the  pil 
lars,  and  drown  the  rich  tide  of  harmony  that  ebbs  and 
flows  through  the  open  portals.  The  beggars  have  be 
taken  themselves  to  their  accustomed  seats  on  the  marble 
steps  of  the  cathedral,  San  Martin  of  Tours,  parting  his 
cloak — carved  in  alt-relief,  over  the  central  entrance — look 
ing  down  upon  them  encouragingly.  These  beggars  clink 
their  metal  boxes  languidly,  or  sleep,  lying  flat  on  the 
stones.  A  group  of  women  have  jammed  themselves  into 
a  corner  between  the  cathedral  and  the  hospital  adjoining 
it  on  that  side.  They  are  waiting  to  see  the  company  pass 
out.  Two  of  them  standing  close  together  are  talking 
eagerly. 

"  My  gracious !  who  would  have  thought  that  old  witch, 
the  Guinigi,"  whispers  Carlotta — Carlotta  owned  a  little 
mercery-shop  in  a  side-street  running  by  the  palace,  right 
under  the  tower — to  her  gossip  Brigitta,  an  occasional  cus 
tomer  for  cotton  and  buttons,  "  who  would  have  thought 
that  she — gracious  !  who  would  have  thought  she  dared  to 
shut  up  her  palace  the  day  of  the  festival?  Did  you 
see  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  answers  Brigitta. 

"  Curses  on  her ! "  hisses  out  Carlotta,  showing  her  black 
teeth.  "  Listen  to  me,  she  will  have  a  great  misfortune — 
mark  my  words — a  great  misfortune  soon — the  stingy  old 
devil!" 

Hearing  the  organ  at  that  instant,  Brigitta  kneels  on 
the  stones,  and  crosses  herself;  then  rises  and  looks  at  Car 
lotta. 


24:  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  St.  Nicodemus  will  have  his  revenge,  never  fear." 

Carlotta  is  still  speaking.  Brigitta  shakes  her  head 
prophetically,  again  looking  at  Carlotta,  whose  deep-sunk 
eyes  are  fixed  upon  her. 

"  Checco  says — Checco  is  a  shoemaker,  and  he  knows 
the  daughter  of  the  man  who  helps  the  butler  in  Casa 
Guinigi — Checco  says  she  laughs  at  the  Holy  Counte 
nance.  Domine  Dio !  what  an  infamy ! "  cries  Carlotta, 
in  a  cracked  voice,  raising  her  skinny  hands  and  shaking 
them  in  the  air.  "  I  hate  the  Guinigi !  I  hate  her !  I  spit 
on  her,  I  curse  her !  " 

There  is  such  venom  in  Carlotta's  looks  and  in  Carlot 
ta's  words  that  Brigitta  suddenly  takes  her  eyes  off  a  man 
with  a  red  waistcoat  whom  she  is  ogling,  but  who  by  no 
means  reciprocates  her  attention,  and  asks  Carlotta  sharply, 
"  Why  she  hates  the  marchesa  ?  " 

"Listen,"  answers  Carlotta,  holding  up  her  finger. 
"  One  day,  as  I  came  out  of  my  little  shop,  s/te" — and  Car 
lotta  points  with  her  thumb  over  her  shoulder  toward  the 
street  of  San  Simone  and  the  Guinigi  Palace — "she  was 
driving  along  the  street  in  her  old  Noah's  Ark  of  a  car 
riage.  Alas !  I  am  old  and  feeble,  and  the  horses  came 
along  quickly.  I  had  no  time  to  get  into  the  little  square 
of  San  Barnabo,  out  of  the  way ;  the  wheel  struck  me  on 
the  shoulder,  I  fell  down.  Yes,  I  fell  down  on  the  hard 
pavement,  Brigitta."  And  Carlotta  sways  her  grizzly  head 
from  side  to  side,  and  grasps  the  other's  arm  so  tightly 
that  Brigitta  screams.  "  Brigitta,  the  marchesa  saw  me. 
She  saw  me  lying  there,  but  she  never  stopped  nor  turned 
her  head.  I  lay  on  the  stones,  sick  and  very  sore,  till  a 
neighbor,  Antonio  the  carpenter,  who  works  in  the  little 
square,  a  good  lad,  picked  me  up  and  carried  me  home." 

As  she  speaks,  Carlotta's  eyes  glitter  like  a  serpent's. 
She  shakes  all  over. 

"  Lord  have  mercy  ! "  exclaims  Brigitta,  looking  hard  at 


THE   THREE   WITCHES.  25 

her;  "that  was  bad!"  Carlotta  was  over  eighty;  her 
face  was  like  tanned  leather,  her  skin  loose  and  shriveled ; 
a  handful  of  gray  hair  grew  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and 
was  twisted  up  with  a  silver  pin.  Brigitta  was  also  of  a 
goodly  age,  but  younger  than  Carlotta,  fat  and  portly,  and 
round  as  a  barrel.  She  was  pitted  by  the  small-pox,  and 
had  but  one  eye ;  but,  being  a  widow,  and  well-to-do  in  the 
world,  is  not  without  certain  pretensions.  She  wears  a 
yellow  petticoat  and  a  jacket  trimmed  with  black  lace.  In 
her  hair,  black  and  frizzly  as  a  negro's,  a  rose  is  stuck  on 
one  side. — The  hair  had  been  dressed  that  morning  by  a 
barber,  to  whom  she  paid  five  francs  a  month  for  this  adorn 
ment. — Some  rows  of  dirty  seed-pearl  are  fastened  round 
her  fat  throat ;  long  gold  ear-rings  bob  in  her  ears,  and  in 
her  hand  is  a  bright  paper  fan,  with  which  she  never  ceases 
fanning  herself. 

•"  She's  never  spent  so  much  as  a  penny  at  my  shop," 
Carlotta  goes  on  to  say.  "  Not  a  penny.  She'd  not  spare 
a  flask  of  wine  to  a  beggar  dying  at  her  door.  Stuck-up 
old  devil !  But  she's  ruined,  ruined  with  lawsuits.  Ruined, 
I  say.  Ha  !  ha  !  Her  time  will  come." 

Finding  Carlotta  wearisome,  Brigitta's  one  eye  has 
again  wandered  off  to  the  man  with  the  red  waistcoat. 
Carlotta  sees  this,  watching  her  out  of  her  deep-set,  glassy 
eyes.  Speak  Carlotta  will,  and  Brigitta  shall  listen,  she 
was  determined. 

"  I  could  tell  you  things  " — she  lowers  her  voice  and 
speaks  into  the  other's  ear — "  things — horrors — about  Casa 
Guinigi ! " 

Brigitta  starts.  "  Gracious  !  You  frighten  me  !  What 
things?" 

"  Ah,  things  that  would  make  your  hair  stand  on  end. 
It  is  I  who  say  it,"  and  Carlotta  snaps  her  fingers  and 
nods. 

"  You  know  things,  Carlotta  ?    You  pretend  to  know 
2 


26  THE   ITALIANS. 

what  happens  in  Casa  Guinigi?  Nonsense!  You  are 
mad ! " 

"Am  I?"  retorts  the  other.  "We  shall  see.  Who 
wins  boasts.  I'm  not  so  mad,  anyhow,  as  the  marchesa, 
who  shuts  up  her  palace  on  the  festival,  and  offends  St. 
Nicodemus  and  all  the  saints  and  martyrs,"  and  Carlotta's 
eyes  flash,  and  her  white  eyebrows  twitch. 

"  However" — and  again  she  lays  her  bony  hand  heavily 
on  Brigitta's  fat  arm — "  if  you  don't  want  to  hear  what  I 
know  about  Casa  Guinigi,  I  will  not  tell  you."  Carlotta 
shuts  up  her  mouth  and  nodds  defiantly. 

This  was  not  at  all  what  Brigitta  desired.  If  there  was 
any  thing  to  be  told,  she  would  like  to  hear  it. 

"  Come,  come,  Carlotta,  don't  be  angry.  You  may  know 
mucli  more  than  I  do ;  you  are  always  in  your  shop,  except 
on  festivals.  The  door  is  open,  and  you  can  see  into  the 
street  of  San  Simone,  up  and  down.  But  speak  low ;  for 
there  are  Lisa  and  Cassandra  close  behind,  and  they  will 
hear.  Tell  me,  Carlotta,  what  is  it?  " 

Brigitta  speaks  very  coaxingly. 

"  Yes,"  replies  the  old  woman,  "  I  can  see  both  the 
Guinigi  palaces  from  my  door — both  the  palaces.  If  the 
marchesa  knew — " 

"  Go  on,  go  on  ! "  says  Brigitta,  nudging  her.  She 
leans  forward  to  listen.  "  Go  on.  People  are  coming  out 
of  the  cathedral." 

Carlotta  raises  her  head  and  grins,  showing  the  few 
black  teeth  left  in  her  mouth.  "  Are  they  ?  Well,  answer 
me.  Who  lives  in  the  street  there — the  street  of  San  Si 
mone — as  well  as  the  marchesa  ?  Who  has  a  fine  palace 
that  the  marchesa  sold  him,  a  palace  on  which  he  has 
spent — ah  !  so  much,  so  much  ?  Who  keeps  open  house, 
and  has  a  French  cook,  and  fine  furniture,  and  new  clothes, 
and  horses  in  his  stable,  and  six  carriages  ?  Who  ? — 
who?" 


THE   THREE   WITCHES.  27 

As  old  Carlotta  puts  these  questions  she  sways  her  body 
to  and  fro,  and  raises  her  finger  to  her  nose. 

"  Who  is  strong,  and  square,  and  fair,  and  smooth  ? 
Who  goes  in  and  out  with  a  smile  on  his  face  ?  Who  ? 
—who?" 

"  Why,  Nobili,  of  course — Count  Nobili.  We  all  know 
that,"  answered  Brigitta,  impatiently.  "  That's  no  news. 
But  what  has  Nobili  to  do  with  the  marchesa  ?  " 

"  What  has  he  to  do  with  the  marchesa  ?  Listen, 
Madama  Brigitta.  I  will  tell  you.  Do  you  know  that,  of 
all  gentlemen  in  Lucca,  the  marchesa  hates  Nobili  ?  " 

"  Well,  and  what  then  ?  " 

"  She  hates  him  because  he  is  rich  and  spends  his  money 
freely,  and  because  she — the  Guinigi — lives  in  the  same 
street  and  sees  it.  It  turns  sour  upon  her  stomach,  like 
milk  in  a  thunder-storm.  She  hates  him." 

"  Well,  is  that  all  ?  "  interrupts  Brigitta. 

Carlotta  puts  up  her  chin  close  to  Brigitta's  face,  and 
clasps  her  tightly  by  the  shoulder  with  both  her  skinny 
hands.  "  That  is  not  all.  The  marchesa  has  her  own  niece, 
who  lives  with  her — a  doll  of  a  girl,  with  a  white  face — 
puff!  not  worth  a  feather  to  look  at ;  only  a  cousin  of  the 
marchesa's  husband;  but,  she's  the  only  one  left,  all  the 
same.  They  are  so  thin-blooded,  the  Guinigi,  they  have 
come  to  an  end.  The  old  woman  never  had  a  child ;  she 
would  have  starved  it." 

Carlotta  lowers  her  voice,  and  speaks  into  Brigitta's  ear. 
"  Nobili  loves  the  niece.  The  marchesa  would  have  the 
carbineers  out  if  she  knew  it." 

"  Oh  ! "  breaks  from  Brigitta,  under  her  breath.  "  This 
is  fine !  splendid !  Are  you  sure  of  this,  Carlotta  ?  quite 
sure  ?  " 

"  As  sure  as  that  I  like  meat,  and  only  get  it  on  Sun 
days. — Sure  ? — I  have  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes.  Checco 
knows  the  granddaughter  of  the  man  who  helps  the  cook — 


28  THE  ITALIANS. 

Nobili  pays  like  a  lord,  as  he  is  ! — He  spends  his  money, 
he  does  ! — Nobili  writes  to  the  niece,  and  she  answers. 
Listen.  To-day,  the  marchesa  shut  up  her  palace  and  put 
a  chain  on  the  door.  But  chains  can  be  unloosed,  locks 
broken.  Enrica  (that's  the  niece)  at  daybreak  comes  out 
to  the  arched  gate-way  that  opens  from  the  street  into  the 
Moorish  garden  at  the  farther  side  of  the  palace — she  comes 
out  and  talks  to  Nobili  for  half  an  hour,  under  cover  of  the 
ivy  that  hangs  over  the  wall  on  that  side.  Teresa,  the 
maid,  was  there  too,  but  she  stood  behind.  Nobili  wore  a 
long  cloak  that  covered  him  all  over ;  Enrica  had  a  thick 
veil  fastened  round  her  head  and  face.  They  didn't  see  me, 
but  I  watched  them  from  behind  Pietro's  house,  at  the  cor 
ner  of  the  street  opposite.  First  of  all,  Enrica  puts  her 
head  out  of  the  gate-way.  Teresa  puts  hers  out  next. 
Then  Enrica  waves  her  hand  toward  the  palace  opposite,  a 
side-door  opens  piano  piano,  Nobili  appears,  and  watches 
all  round  to  see  that  no  one  is  near — ha !  ha  !  his  young 
eyes  didn't  spy  out  my  old  ones  though,  for  all  that — No 
bili  appears,  I  say,  then  he  puts  his  hand  to  his  heart,  and 
gives  such  a  look  across  the  street ! — Ahi  1  it  makes  my 
old  blood  boil  to  see  it.  I  was  pretty  once,  and  liked  such 
looks. — You  may  think  my  eyes  are  dim,  but  I  can  see  as 
far  as  another." 

And  the  old  hag  chuckles  spitefully,  and  winks  at  Bri- 
gitta,  enjoying  her  surprise. 

"  Madre  di  Dio  !  "  exclaims  this  one.  "  There  will  be 
fine  work." 

"  Yes,  truly,  very  fine  work.  The  marchesa  shall  know 
it ;  all  Lucca  shall  know  it  too — mark  my  words,  all  Lucca  ! 
Curses  on  the  Guinigi  root  and  branch  !  I  will  humble 
them  !  Curses  on  them  !  "  imimbles  Carlotta. 

"  And  what  did  Nobili  do  ?  "  asks  Brigitta. 

"  Do  ? — Why,  seeing  no  one,  he  came  across  and  kissed 
Enrica's  hand ;  I  saw  it.  He  made  as  if  he  would  have 


THE   THREE   WITCHES.  29 

knelt  upon  the  stones,  only  she  would  not  let  him.  Then 
they  whispered  for,  as  near  as  I  can  guess,  half  an  hour — 
Teresa  standing  apart.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  cart  then 
coming  along  the  street,  and  presto ! — Enrica  was  within 
the  garden  in  an  instant,  the  gate  was  closed,  and  Nobili 
disappeared." 

Any  further  talk  is  now  cut  short  by  the  approach  of 
Cassandra,  a  friend  of  Brigitta's.  Cassandra  is  a  servant 
in  a  neighboring  eating-house,  a  tall,  large-boned  woman, 
a  colored  handkerchief  tied  over  her  head,  and  much  taw 
dry  jewelry  about  her  hands  and  neck. 

"  What  are  you  two  chattering  about  ?  "  asks  Cassan 
dra  sharply.  "  It  seems  entertaining.  What's  the  news  ? 
I  get  paid  for  news  at  my  shop.  Tell  me  directly." 

"  Lotta  here  was  only  relating  to  me  all  about  her  grand 
child,"  answers  Biigitta,  with  a  wrhine. — Brigitta  was  rather 
in  dread  of  Cassandra,  whose  temper  was  fierce,  and  who, 
being  strong,  knocked  people  down  occasionally  if  they 
offended  her. 

"  Lotta  was  telling  me,  too,  that  she  wants  fresh  stores 
for  her  shop,  but  all  her  money  is  gone  to  the  grandchild 
in  the  hospital,  who  is  ill,  very  ill ! "  and  Brigitta  sighs  and 
turns  up  the  whites  of  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  joins  in  Carlotta,  a  dismal  look  upon  her 
shriveled  old  face.  "  Yes — it  is  just  that.  All  the  money 
gone  to  the  grandchild,  the  son  of  my  Beppo — that's  the 
soldier  who  is  with  the  king's  army. — Alas  !  all  gone  ;  my 
money,  my  son,  and  all." 

Here  Carlotta  affects  to  groan  and  wring  her  hands  de 
spairingly. 

The  mass  was  now  nearly  over;  many  people  were  al 
ready  leaving  the  cathedral ;  but  the  swell  of  the  organs 
and  the  sweet  tones  of  voices  still  burst  forth  from  time  to 
time.  Festive  masses  are  always  long.  It  might  not  seem 
so  to  the  pretty  ladies  in  the  boxes,  still  perseveringly  fan- 


30  THE   ITALIANS. 

ning  themselves,  nor  to  the  golden  youths  who  were  divert 
ing  them ;  but  the  prospect  of  dinner  and  a  siesta  was  a 
temptation  stronger  than  the  older  portion  of  the  congre 
gation  could  resist.  By  twos  and  threes  they  slipped  out. 

This  is  the  moment  for  the  three  women  to  use  their 
eyes  and  their  tongues — very  softly  indeed — for  they  were 
now  elbowed  by  some  of  the  best  people  in  Lucca — but  to 
use  them. 

"  There's  Baldassare,  the  chemist's  son,"  whispers  Bi  i- 
gitta,  who  was  using  her  one  eye  diligently. 

"  Mercy !  That  new  coat  was  never  cut  in  Lucca.  They 
need  sell  many  drugs  at  papa-chemists'  to  pay  for  Baldas- 
sare's  clothes.  Why,  he's  combed  and  scented  like  a  spice- 
tree.  He's  a  good-looking  fellow ;  the  great  ladies  like 
him."  This  was  said  with  a  knock-me-down  air  by  Cassan 
dra.  "  He  dines  at  our  place  every  day.  It's  a  pleasure  to 
see  his  black  curls  and  smell  his  scented  handkerchief." 

A  cluster  of  listeners  had  now  gathered  round  Cassan 
dra,  who,  conscious  of  an  audience,  thought  it  worth  her 
while  to  hold  forth.  Shaking  out  the  folds  of  her  gown, 
she  leaned  her  back  against  the  wall,  and  pointed  with  a 
finger  on  which  were  some  trumpery  rings.  Cassandra 
knew  everybody,  and  was  determined  to  make  those  about 
her  aware  of  it.  "  That's  young  Count  Orsetti  and  his  mam 
ma  ;  they  give  a  grand  ball  to-night."  (Cassandra  is  stand 
ing  on  tiptoe  now,  the  better  to  observe  those  who  pass.) 
"  There  she  goes  to  her  carriage.  Ahi !  how  grand  !  The 
coachman  and  the  valet  with  gold-lace  and  silk  stockings. 
I  would  fast  for  a  week  to  ride  once  in  such  a  carriage. 
Oh  !  I  would  give  any  thing  to  splash  the  mud  in  people's 
faces.  She's  a  fine  woman — the  Orsetti.  Observe  her 
light  hair.  Madonna  mia  !  What  a  train  of  silk  !  Twelve 
shillings  a  yard — not  a  penny  less.  She's  got  a  cavalierc 
still. — He  !  he  !  a  cavaliere  !  " 

Carlotta  grins,  and  winks  her  wicked  old  eyes. 


THE   THREE   WITCHES.  31 

"  She  wants  to  marry  her  son  to  Teresa  Ottolini.  He's 
a  poor  silly  little  fellow ;  but  rich — very  rich." 

"Who's  that  fat  man  in  a  brown  coat  ?  "  asks  Brigitta. 
"  He's  like  a  maggot  in  a  fresh  nut !  " 

"  That's  my  master — a  fine-made  man,"  answers  Cassan 
dra,  frowning  and  pinching  in  her  lips,  with  an  affronted 
air,  "  Take  care  what  you  say  about  my  master,  Brigitta ; 
I  shall  allow  no  observations." 

Brigitta  turns  aside,  puts  her  tongue  in  her  cheek,  and 
glances  maliciously  at  Carlotta,  who  nods. 

"How  do  you  know  how  your  master  is  made,  Cas 
sandra  mia  ?  "  asks  Brigitta,  looking  round,  with  a  short 
laugh. 

"Because  I  have  eyes  in  my  head,"  replies  Cassandra, 
defiantly.  "  My  master,  the  padrone  of  the  Pelican  Hotel, 
is  not  a  man  one  sees  every  day  in  the  week  !  " 

A  tall  priest  now  appears  from  within  the  church,  coming 
down  the  nave,  in  company  with  a  rosy-faced  old  gentleman, 
who,  although  using  a  stick,  walks  briskly  and  firmly.  He 
has  a  calm  and  pleasant  face,  and  his  hair,  which  lies  in 
neat  little  curls  upon  his  forehead,  is  as  white  as  snow. 
One  moment  the  rosy  old  gentleman  talks  eagerly  with  the 
priest;  the  next  he  sinks  upon  his  knees  on  the  pavement, 
and  murmurs  prayers  at  a  side  altar.  He  does  this  so  ab 
ruptly  that  the  tall  priest  stumbles  over  him.  There  are 
many  apologies,  and  many  bows.  Then  the  old  gentleman 
rises,  dusts  his  clothes  carefully  with  a  white  handkerchief, 
and  walks  on,  talking  eagerly  as  before.  Both  he  and  the 
priest  bend  low  to  the  high  altar,  dip  their  fingers  in  the 
holy-water,  cross  themselves,  bend  again  to  the  altar,  turn 
ing  right  and  left — before  leaving  the  cathedral. 

"  That's  Fra  Pacifico,"  cries  Carlotta,  greatly  excited — 
"  Fra  Pacifico,  the  Marchesa  Guinigi's  chaplain.  He's  come 
down  from  Corellia  for  the  festival." — Carlotta  is  proud  to 
show  that  she  knows  somebody,  as  well  as  Cassandra. — 


3.3  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  When  lie  is  in  Lucca,  Fra  Pacifico  passes  my  shop  every 
morning'  to  say  mass  in  the  marchesa's  private  chapel.  He 
knows  all  her  sins." 

"  And  the  old  gentleman  with  him,"  puts  in  Cassandra, 
twitching  her  hook  nose,  "  is  old  Trenta — Cesare  Trenta, 
the  cavaliere.  Bless  his  dear  old  face !  The  duke  loved 
him  well.  He  was  chamberlain  at  the  palace.  He's  a  gen 
tleman  all  over,  is  Cavaliere  Trenta.  There — there.  Look ! " 
— and  she  points  eagerly — "  that's  the  Red  count,  Count 
Marescotti,  the  republican." 

Cassandra  lowers  her  voice,  afraid  to  be  overheard,  and 
fixes  her  eyes  on  a  man  whose  every  feature  and  gesture 
proclaimed  him  an  aristocrat. 

Excited  by  the  grandeur  of  the  service,  Marescotti's 
usually  pale  face  is  suffused  with  color;  his  large  black 
eyes  shine  with  inner  lights.  Looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left,  he  walks  through  the  atrium,  straight  down 
the  marble  steps,  into  the  piazza.  As  he  passes  the  three 
women  they  draw  back  against  the  Avail.  There  is  a  dig 
nity  about  Marescotti  that  involuntarily  awes  them. 

"  That's  the  man  for  the  people  !  "  —  Cassandra  still 
speaks  under  her  breath. — "He'll  give  us  a  republic  yet." 

Following  close  on  Count  Marescotti  comes  Count  No- 
bili.  There  are  ease  and  conscious  strength  and  freedom  in 
his  every  movement.  He  pauses  for  a  moment  on  the  up 
permost  step  under  the  central  arch  of  the  atrium  and  gazes 
round.  The  sun  strikes  upon  his  fresh-complexioned  face 
and  lights  up  his  fair  hair  and  restless  eyes. — It  is  clear  to 
see  no  care  has  yet  troubled  that  curly  head  of  his. — No- 
bili  is  closely  followed  by  a  lady  of  mature  age,  dark,  thin, 
and  sharp-featured.  She  has  a  glass  in  her  eye,  with  which 
she  peers  at  every  thing  and  everybody.  This  is  the  Mar- 
chesa  Boccarini.  She  is  followed  by  her  three  daughters ; 
two  of  them  of  no  special  attraction,  but  the  youngest, 
Nera,  dark  and  strikingly  handsome.  These  three  young 


THE  THREE  WITCHES.  33 

ladies,  all  matrimonially  inclined,  but  Nera  specially,  had 
carefully  watched  the  instant  when  Nobili  left  his  seat. 
Then  they  had  followed  him  closely.  It  was  intended  that 
he  should  escort  them  home.  Nera  has  already  decided 
what  she  will  say  to  him  touching  the  Orsetti  ball  that  even 
ing  and  the  cotillon,  which  she  means  to  dance  with  him 
if  she  can.  But  Nobili,  with  whom  they  come  up  under 
the  portico,  merely  responds  to  their  salutation  with  a  low 
bow,  raises  his  hat,  and  stands  aside  to  make  way  for  them. 
He  docs  not  even  offer  to  hand  them  to  their  carriage. 
They  pass,  and  are  gone. 

As  Count  Nobili  descends  the  three  steps  into  the 
piazza,  he  is  conscious  that  all  eyes  are  fixed  upon  him  ;  that 
every  head  is  uncovered.  He  pauses,  casts  his  eyes  round 
at  the  upturned  faces,  raises  his  hat.  and  smiles,  then  puts 
his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  takes  out  a  gold-piece,  which 
he  gives  to  the  nearest  beggar.  The  beggar,  seizing  the 
gold-piece,  blesses  him,  and  hopes  that  "  Heaven  will  ren 
der  to  him  according  to  his  merits."  Other  beggars,  from 
every  corner,  are  about  to  rush  upon  him  ;  but  Nobili  deft 
ly  escapes  from  these  as  he  had  escaped  from  the  Marchesa 
Boccarini  and  her  daughters,  and  is  gone. 

"A  lucky  face,"  mumbles  old  Cavlotta,  working  her 
under  lip,  as  she  fixes  her  bleared  eyes  on  him — "  a  lucky 
face  !  He  will  choose  the  winning  number  in  the  lottery, 
and  the  evil  eye  will  never  harm  him." 

The  music  had  now  ceased.  The  mass  was  over.  The 
vast  congregation  poured  through  the  triple  doors  into  the 
piazza,  and  mingled  with  the  outer  crowd.  For  a  while 
both  waved  to  and  fro,  like  billows  on  a  rolling  sea,  then 
settled  down  into  one  compact  current,  which,  flowing  on 
ward,  divided  and  dispersed  itself  through  the  openings 
into  the  various  streets  abutting  on  the  piazza. 

Last  of  all,  Carlotta,  Brigitta,  and  Cassandra,  leave  their 
corner.  They  are  speedily  engulfed  in  the  shadows  of  a 
neighboring  alley,  and  are  seen  no  more. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   MAKCHESA   GUINIGI. 

THE  stern  and  repulsive  aspect  of  the  exterior  of  the 
Marchesa  Guinigi's  palace  belied  the  antique  magnificence 
within. 

Turning  to  the  right  under  an  archway  from  the  damp, 
moss-grown  court  over  which  the  tower  throws  a  perpetual 
shadow,  a  broad  staircase,  closed  by  a  door  of  open  iron 
work,  leads  to  the  first  story  (the piano  noMle).  Here  an 
anteroom,  with  Etruscan  urns  and  fragments  of  mediaeval 
sculpture  let  into  the  walls,  gives  access  to  a  great  sala,  or 
hall,  where  Paolo  Guinigi  entertained  the  citizens  and 
magnates  of  Lucca  with  sumptuous  hospitality. 

The  vaulted  ceiling,  divided  into  compartments  by 
heavy  panels,  is  profusely  gilt,  and  painted  in  fresco  by 
Venetian  masters ;  but  the  gold  is  dulled  by  age,  and  the 
frescoes  are  but  dingy  patches  of  what  once  was  color. 
The  walls,  ornamented  with  Flemish  tapestry,  represent 
the  Seven  Labors  of  Hercules — the  bright  colors  all  faded 
out  and  blurred  like  the  frescoes.  Above,  on  the  surface 
of  polished  walnut-wood,  between  the  tapestry  and  the 
ceiling,  are  hung  suits  of  mail,  helmets,  shields,  swords, 
lances,  and  tattered  banners. 

Every  separate  piece  has  its  history.  Each  lance,  in 
the  hand  of  some  mediaeval  hero  of  the  name,  has  trans- 


THE  MARCIIESA  GUINIGI.  ?j 

fixed  a  foe,  every  sword  has  been  dyed  in  the  life-blood  of 
a  Ghibelline. 

At  the  four  corners  of  the  hall  are  four  doorways  cor 
responding  to  each  other.  Before  each  doorway  hang 
curtains  of  Genoa  velvet,  embroidered  in  gold  with  the 
Guinigi  arms  surmounted  by  a  princely  coronet.  Time 
has  mellowed  these  once  crimson  curtains  to  dingy  red. 
From  the  hall,  entered  by  these  four  doors,  open  out  end 
less  suites  of  rooms,  enriched  with  the  spoils  of  war  and 
the  splendor  of  feudal  times.  Not  a  chair,  not  a  table,  has 
been  renewed,  or  even  shifted  from  its  place,  since  the  four 
teenth  century,  when  Paolo  Guinigi  reigned  absolute  in 
Lucca. 

On  first  entering,  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  any  thing 
in  the  half-light.  The  narrow  Gothic  casements  of  the 
whole  floor  are  closed,  both  those  toward  the  street  and 
those  facing  inward  upon  the  inner  court. .  The  outer  wood 
en  shutters  are  also  closely  fastened.  The  marchesa  would 
consider  it  a  sacrilege  to  allow  light  OP  even  outer  air  to 
penetrate  in  these  rooms,  sacred  to  the  memory  of  her 
great  ancestors. 

First  in  order  after  the  great  hall  is  a  long  gallery 
paneled  with  dark  marble.  It  has  a  painted  ceiling,  and  a 
mosaic  floor.  Statues  and  antique  busts,  presented  by  the 
emperor  to  Paolo  Guinigi,  are  ranged  on  either  side.  This 
gallery  leads  through  various  antechambers  to  the  retiring- 
room,  where,  in  feudal  times,  the  consort  of  the  reigning 
lord  presided  when  the  noble  dames  of  Lucca  visited  her 
on  state  occasions — a  victory  gained  over  the  Pisans  or 
Florentines — the  conquest  of  a  rebellious  city,  Pistoia  per 
haps — the  birth  of  a  son ;  or — the  anniversary  of  national 
festivals.  Pale-blue  satin  stuffs  and  delicate  brocades, 
crossed  with  what  was  once  glittering  threads  of  gold, 
cover  the  walls.  Rows  of  Venetian-glass  chandeliers, 
tinted  in  every  shade  of  loveliest  color,  fashioned  into  col- 


36  THE  ITALIANS. 

ored  knots,  pendants,  and  flowers,  hang  from  the  painted 
rafters.  Mirrors,  set  in  ponderous  frames  of  old  Florentine 
gilding,  dimly  reflect  every  object;  narrow,  high-backed 
chairs  and  carved  wooden  benches,  sculptured  mosaic  tables 
and  ponderous  sideboards  covered  with  choice  pottery  from 
Gubbio  and  Savona,  and  Lucca  della  Robbia  ware.  Sunk 
in  recesses  there  are  dark  cupboards  filled  with  mediaeval 
salvers,  goblets,  and  flagons,  gold  dishes,  and  plates,  and  ves 
sels  of  filigree  and  silver.  Ivory  carvings  hang  on  the  walls 
beside  dingy  pictures,  or  are  ranged  on  tables  of  Sicilian 
agate  and  Oriental  jasper.  Against  the  walls  are  also  placed 
cabinets  and  caskets  of  carved  walnut-wood  and  ebony 
inlaid  with  lapis-lazuli,  jasper,  and  precious  stones ;  also 
long,  narrow  coffers,  richly  carved,  within  which  the  corredo, 
or  trousseau,  of  rich  brides  who  had  matched  with  a  Guinigi, 
was  laid. 

Beyond  the  retiring-rocm  is  the  presence-chamber.  On 
a  dais,  raised  on  three  broad  steps,  stands  a  chair  of  state, 
surmounted  by  a  dark-velvet  canopy.  Above  appear  the 
Guinigi  arms,  worked  in  gold  and  black,  tarnished  now,  as 
is  the  glory  of  the  illustrious  house  they  represent.  Over 
head  are  suspended  two  cardinals'  hats,  dropping  to  pieces 
with  moth  and  mildew.  On  the  wall  opposite  the  dais,  be 
tween  two  ranges  of  narrow  Venetian  windows,  looking 
into  the  court-yard,  hangs  the  historic  portrait  of  Castruccio 
Castracani  degli  Antimelli,  the  Napoleon  of  the  midttle 
ages,  whose  rapid  conquests  raised  Lucca  to  a  sovereign 
state. 

The  name  of  the  great  Castruccio  (whose  mother  was  a 
Guinigi)  is  the  glory  of  the  house,  his  portrait  more  pre 
cious  than  any  other  possession. 

A  gleam  of  ruddy  light  strikes  through  a  crevice  in  a 
red  curtain  opposite ;  it  falls  full  upon  the  chair  of  state. 
That  chair  is  not  empty  ;  a  tall,  dark  figure  is  seated  there. 
It  is  the  Marchesa  Guinigi.  She  is  so  thin  and  pale  and 


THE  MARCIIESA  GUINIGI.  37 

motionless,  she  might  pass  for  a  ghost  herself,  haunting 
the  ghosts  of  her  ancestors  ! 

It  is  her  custom  twice  a  year,  on  the  anniversary  of  the 
birth  and  death  of  Castruccio  Castracani — to-day  is  the  an 
niversary  of  his  death — to  unlock  the  door  leading  from  the 
hall  into  these  state-apartments,  and  to  remain  here  alone 
for  many  hours.  The  key  is  always  about  her  person,  at 
tached  to  her  girdle.  No  other  foot  but  her  own  is  ever 
permitted  to  tread  these  floors. 

She  sits  in  the  half-light,  lost  in  thought  as  in  a  dream. 
Her  head  is  raised,  her  arms  are  extended  over  the  sides  of 
the  antique  chair ;  her  long,  white  hands  hang  down  list 
lessly.  Her  eyes  wander  vaguely  along  the  floor ;  gradu 
ally  they  raise  themselves  to  the  portrait  of  her  great 
ancestor  opposite.  How  well  she  knows  every  line  and 
feature  of  that  stern  but  heroic  countenance,  every  dark  curl 
upon  that  classic  head,  wreathed  with  ivy-leaves ;  that  full, 
expressive  eye,  aquiline  nose,  open  nostril,  and  chiseled  lip ; 
every  fold  in  that  ermine-bordered  mantle — a  present  from 
the  emperor,  after  the  victory  of  Altopasso,  and  the  triumph 
of  the  Ghibellines  !  Looking  into  the  calmness  of  that  im 
pressive  face,  in  the  mystery  of  the  darkened  presence-cham 
ber,  she  can  forget  that  the  greatness  of  her  house  is  fallen, 
the  broad  lands  sold  or  mortgaged,  the  treasures  granted  by 
the  state  lavished,  one  even  of  the  ancestral  palaces  sold ; 
nay,  worse,  not  only  sold,  but  desecrated  by  commerce  in 
the  person  of  Count  Nobili. 

Seated  there,  on  the  seigneurial  chair,  under  the  regal 
canopy,  she  can  forget  all  this.  For  a  few  short  hours  she 
can  live  again  in  the  splendor  of  the  past — the  past,  when 
a  Guinigi  was  the  equal  of  kings,  his  word  more  absolute 
than  law,  his  frown  more  terrible  than  death  ! 

Before  the  marchesa  is  a  square  table  of  dark  marble, 
on  which  in  old  time  was  laid  the  sword  of  state  (a  special 
insignia  of  office),  borne  before  the  Lord  of  Lucca  in  public 


38  TIIE  ITALIANS. 

processions,  embassies,  and  tournaments.  This  table  is 
now  covered  with  small  piled-up  heaps  of  gold  and  silver 
coin  (the  gold  much  less  in  quantity  than  the  silver).  There 
are  a  few  jewels,  and  some  diamond  pendants  in  antique 
settings,  a  diamond  necklace,  crosses,  medals,  and  orders, 
and  a  few  uncut  gems  and  antique  intaglios. 

The  marchesa  takes  up  each  object  and  examines  it. 
She  counts  the  gold-pieces,  putting  them  back  again  one 
by  one  in  rows,  by  tens  and  twenties.  She  handles  the 
crisp  bank-notes.  She  does  this  over  and  over  again  so 
slowly  and  so  carefully,  it  would  seem,  as  if  she  expected 
the  money  to  grow  under  her  fingers.  She  has  placed  all 
in  order  before  her — the  jewels  on  one  side,  the  money  and 
the  notes  on  the  other.  As  she  moves  them  to  and  fro  on 
the  smooth  marble  with  the  points  of  her  long  fingers,  she 
shakes  her  head  and  sighs.  Then  she  touches  a  secret 
spring,  and  a  drawer  opens  from  under  the  table.  Into 
this  drawer  she  deposits  all  that  lies  before  her,  her  fingers 
still  clinging  to  the  gold. 

After  a  while  she  rises,  and  casting  a  parting  glance  at 
the  portrait  of  Castruccio — among  all  her  ancestors  Cas- 
truccio  was  the  object  of  her  special  reverence — she  moves 
leisurely  onward  through  the  various  apartments  lying 
beyond  the  presence-chamber. 

The  doors,  draped  with  heavy  tapestry  curtains,  are  all 
open.  It  is  a  long,  gloomy  suite  of  rooms,  where  the  sun 
never  shines,  looking  into  the  inner  court. 

The  marchesa's  steps  are  noiseless,  her  countenance 
grave  and  pale.  Here  and  there  she  pauses  to  gaze  into 
the  face  of  a  picture,  or  to  brush  off  the  dust  from  some 
object  specially  dear  to  her.  She  pauses,  minutely  observ 
ing  every  thing  around  her. 

There  is  a  dark  closet,  with  a  carved  wooden  cornice 
and  open  raftered  roof,  the  walls  covered  with  stamped 
leather.  Here  the  familv  councils  assembled.  Next  comes 


THE  MARCHESA  GUINIGI,  39 

a  long1,  narrow,  low-roofed  gallery,  where  row  after  row  of 
portraits  and  pictures  illustrate  the  defunct  Guinigi.  In 
that  centre  panel  hangs  Francesco  dei  Guinigi,  who,  for 
courtesy  and  riches,  surpassed  all  others  in  Lucca.  (Fran 
cesco  was  the  first  to  note  the  valor  of  his  young  cousin 
Castruccio,  to  whom  he  taught  the  art  of  war.)  Near  him 
hangs  the  portrait  of  Ridolfo,  who  triumphantly  defeated 
Uguccione  della  Faggiola,  the  tyrant  of  Pisa,  under  the 
very  walls  of  that  city.  Farther  on,  at  the  top  of  the  room, 
is  the  likeness  of  the  great  Paolo  himself — a  dark,  olive- 
skinned  man,  with  a  hard-lipped  mouth,  and  resolute  eyes, 
clad  in  a  complete  suit  of  gold-embossed  armor.  By 
Paolo's  side  appears  Battista,  who  followed  the  Crusades, 
and  entered  Jerusalem  with  Godfrey  de  Bouillon;  also 
Gianni,  grand-master  of  the  Knights  Hospitallers  of  St. 
John — the  golden  rose  presented  to  him  by  the  pope  in 
the  corner  of  the  picture. 

After  the  gallery  come  the  armory  and  the  chapel. 
Beyond  at  the  end  of  the  vaulted  passage,  lighted  from 
above,  there  is  a  closed  door  of  dark  walnut- wood. 

When  the  marchesa  enters  this  vaulted  passage,  her 
firm,  quick  step  falters.  As  she  approaches  the  door,  she 
is  visibly  agitated.  Her  hand  trembles  as  she  places  it  on 
the  heavy  outside  lock.  The  lock  yields ;  the  door  opens 
with  a  creak.  She  draws  aside  a  heavy  curtain,  then  stands 
motionless. 

There  is  such  a  mist  of  dust,  such  a  blackness  of  shadow, 
that  at  first  nothing  is  visible.  Gradually,  as  the  daylight 
faintly  penetrates  by  the  open  door,  the  shadows  form 
themselves  into  definite  shapes. 

Within  a  deep  alcove,  inclosed  by  a  balustrade,  stands 
a  bed — its  gilt  cornice  reaching  to  the  ceiling,  heavily  cur 
tained.  This  is  the  nuptial  -  chamber  of  the  Guinigi. 
Within  that  alcove,  and  in  that  bed,  generation  after  gener 
ation  have  seen  the  light.  Not  to  be  born  in  the  nuptial- 


40  THE  ITALIANS. 

chamber,  and  in  that  bed   within  the  ancestral  palace,  is 
not  to  be  a  true  Guinigi. 

The  marchesa  has  taken  a  step  or  two  forward  into 
the  room.  There,  wrapped  in  the  shadows,  she  stands  still 
and  trembles.  A  terrible  look  has  come  into  her  face — sor 
row,  and  longing-,  and  remorse.  The  history  of  her  whole 
life  rises  up  before  her. 

"  Is  the  end,  then,  come  ?  "  she  asks  herself — "  and  with 
me?" 

From  pale  she  had  turned  ashy.  The  long  shadows 
from  the  dark  curtains  stretch  out  and  engulf  her.  She  feels 
their  dark  touch,  like  a  visible  presence  of  evil,  she  shivers 
all  over.  The  cold  damp  air  of  the  chill  room  comes  to 
her  like  wafts  of  deadly  poison.  She  cannot  breathe ;  a 
convulsive  tremor  passes  over  her. 

She  totters  to  the  door,  and  leans  for  support  against 
the  side.  Yet  she  will  not  go ;  she  forces  herself  to  re 
main.  To  stand  here,  in  this  room,  before  that  bed,  is  her 
penance.  To  stand  here  like  a  criminal !  Ah,  God  !  is  she 
not  childless?  Why  has  she  (and  her  hands  are  clinched, 
and  her  breath,  comes  thick),  why  has  she  been  stricken 
with  barrenness  ? 

"Why,  why?"  she  asks  herself  now,  as  she  has  asked 
herself  year  after  year,  each  year  with  a  fresh  agony.  Un 
til  she  came,  a  son  had  never  failed  under  that  roof.  Why 
was  she  condemned  to  be  alone  ?  She  had  done  nothing 
to  deserve  it.  Had  she  not  been  a  blameless  wife?  Why, 
why  was  she  so  punished?  Her  haughty  spirit  stirs 
within  her. 

"  God  is  unjust,"  she  mutters,  half  aloud.  "  God  is  my 
enemy." 

As  the  impious  words  fall  from  her  lips  they  ring  round 
the  dark  bed,  and  die  away  among  the  black  draperies. 
The  echo  of  her  own  voice  fills  her  with  dread.  She  rushes 
out.  The  door  closes  heavily  after  her. 


THE   MARCIIESA   GUINIGI.  41 

Onco  removed  from  that  fatal  chamber,  with  its  death 
like  shadows,  she  gradually  collects  herself.  She  has  so 
long  fortified  herself  against  all  sign  of  outward  emotion, 
she  has  so  hardened  herself  in  an  inner  life  of  secret  re 
morse,  this  is  easy — at  least  to  outward  appearance.  The 
calm,  frigid  look  natural  to  her  face  returns.  Her  eyes  have 
again  their  dark  sparkle.  Not  a  trace  remains  to  tell  what 
her  self-imposed  penance  has  cost  her. 

A^ain  she  is  the  proud  marchesa,  the  mistress  of  the 
feudal  palace  and  all  its  glorious  memories. — Yes ;  and  she 
casts  her  eyes  round  where  she  stands,  back  again  in  the 
retiring-room.  Yes — all  is  yet  her  own.  True,  she  is  im 
poverished — worse,  she  is  laden  with  debt,  harassed  by 
creditors.  The  lands  that  are  left  are  heavily  mortgaged ; 
the  money  received  from  Count  Nobili,  as  the  price  of  the 
palace,  already  spent  in  law.  The  hoard  she  has  just 
counted — her  savings — destined  to  dower  her  niece  Enrica, 
in  whose  marriage  lies  the  sole  remaining  hope  of  the 
preservation  of  the  name  (and  that  depending  on  the  will 
of  a  husband,  who  may,  or  may  not,  add  the  name  of  Guinigi 
to  his  own)  is  most  slender.  She  has  been  able  to  add 
nothing  to  it  during  these  last  years — not  a  farthing.  But 
there  is  one  consolation.  While  she  lives,  all  is  safe  from 
spoliation.  While  she  lives,  no  creditor  lives  bold  enough 
to  pass  that  threshold.  While  she  lives — and  then  ? 

Further  she  forbids  her  thoughts  to  wander.  She  will 
not  admit,  even  to  herself,  that  there  is  danger — that  even, 
during  her  own  life,  she  may  be  forced  to  sell  what  is 
dearer  to  her  than  life — the  palace  and  the  heirlooms  ! 

Meanwhile  the  consciousness  of  wealth  is  pleasant  to 
her.  She  opens  the  cupboards  in  the  wall,  and  handles  the 
precious  vessels  of  Venetian  glass,  the  silver  plates  and 
golden  flagons,  the  jeweled  cups ;  she  examines  the  ancient 
bronzes  and  ivory  carvings ;  unlocks  the  caskets  and  the 
inlaid  cabinets,  and  turns  over  the  gold  guipure  lace,  the 


42  THE   ITALIANS. 

rich  mediaeval  embroideries,  the  christening-robes — these 
she  flings  quickly  by — and  the  silver  ornaments.  She  un 
closes  the  carved  coffers,  and  passes  through  her  long 
fingers  the  wedding  garments  of  brides  turned  to  dust  cen 
turies  ago — the  silver  veils,  bridal  crowns,  and  quaintly  - 
cut  robes  of  taffetas  and  brocade,  once  white,  now  turned 
to  dingy  yellow.  She  assures  herself  that  all  is  in  its 
place. 

As  she  moves  to  and  fro  she  catches  sight  of  herself 
reflected  in  one  of  the  many  mirrors  encased  in  what  were 
once  gorgeous  frames  hanging  on  the  wall.  She  stops  and 
fixes  her  keen  black  e3res  upon  her  own  worn  face.  "  I 
am  not  old,"  she  says  aloud,  "  only  fifty -five  this  year.  I 
may  live  many  years  yet.  Much  may  happen  before  I  die  ! 
Cesare  Trenta  says  I  am  ruined  " — as  she  speaks,  she  turns 
her  face  toward  the  streaks  of  light  that  penetrate  the 
shutters. — "  Not  yet,  not  ruined  yet.  "Who  knows  ?  I  may 
live  to  redeem  all.  Cesare  said  I  was  ruined  after  that 
last  suit  with  the  chapter.  He  is  a  fool !  The  money  was 
well  spent.  I  would  do  it  again.  While  I  live  the  name 
of  Guinigi  shall  be  honored."  She  pauses,  as  if  listening 
to  the  sound  of  her  own  voice.  Then  her  thoughts  glance 
off  to  the  future.  "  Who  knows  ?  Enrica  shall  marry ; 
that  may  set  all  right.  She  shall  have  all — all ! "  And 
she  turns  and  gazes  earnestly  through  the  open  doors  of 
the  stately  rooms  on  either  hand.  "  Enrica  shall  marry ; 
marry  as  I  please.  She  must  have  no  will  in  the  matter." 

She  stops  suddenly,  remembering  certain  indications  of 
quiet -self-well  which  she  thinks  she  has  already  detected  in 
her  niece. 

"  If  not " — (the  mere  supposition  that  her  plans  should 
be  thwarted — thwarted  by  her  niece,  Enrica — a  child,  a 
tool — brought  up  almost  upon  her  charity — rouses  in  her  a 
tempest  of  passion ;  her  face  darkens,  her  eyes  flash ;  she 
clinches  her  fist  with  sudden  vehemence,  she  shakes  it  in 


THE  MARCHESA  GTJINIGI.  43 

ilie  air) — "  if  not — let  her  die  !  "  Her  shrill  voice  wakes 
the  echoes.  "Let  her  die!"  resounds  faintly  through  the 
gilded  rooms. 

At  this  moment  the  cathedral-clock  strikes  four.  This 
is  the  first  sound  that  has  reached  the  marchesa  from  the 
outer  world  since  she  has  entered  these  rooms.  It  rouses 
her  from  the  thralldom  of  her  thoughts.  It  recalls  her  to 
the  outer  world.  Four  o'clock !  Then  she  has  been  shut 
up  for  five  hours !  She  must  go  at  once,  or  she  may  be 
missed  by  her  household.  If  she  is  missed,  she  may  be  fol 
lowed — watched.  Casting  a  searching  look  round,  to  as 
sure  herself  that  all  is  in  its  place,  she  takes  from  her  girdle 
the  key  she  always  wears,  and  lets  herself  out  into  the 
great  hall.  She  relocks  the  door,  drawing  the  velvet  cur 
tains  carefully  over  it.  With  greater  caution  she  unfastens 
the  other  door  (the  entrance)  on  the  staircase.  Peeping 
through  the  curtains,  she  assures  herself  that  no  one  is  on 
the  stairs.  Then  she  softly  recloses  it,  and  rapidly  ascends 
the  stairs  to  the  second  story. 

That  day  six  months,  on  the  anniversary  of  Castruccio's 
birth,  which  falls  in  the  month  of  March,  she  will  return 
again  to  the  state-rooms.  No  one  has  ever  accompanied 
her  on  these  strange  vigils.  Only  her  friend,  the  Cavaliere 
Trenta,  knows  that  she  goes  there.  Even  to  him  she  rare 
ly  alludes  to  it.  It  is  her  own  secret.  Her  inner  life  is 
with  the  past.  Her  thoughts  rest  with  the  dead.  It  is  the 
living1  who  are  but  shadows. 


CHAPTER  V. 

EXKICA. 

TIIE  marchesa  was  in  a  very  bad  humor.  Not  only  did 
•she  stay  at  Lome  all  the  day  of  the  festival  of  the  Holy 
Countenance  by  reason  of  the  solemn  anniversary  which 
occurred  at  that  time,  but  she  shut  herself  up  the  following 
day  also.  When  the  old  servant  (old  inside  and  out)  in 
his  shabby  livery,  who  acted  as  butler,  crept  into  her  room, 
and  asked  at  what  time  "  the  eccellenza  would  take  her 
airing  on  the  ramparts  " — the  usual  drive  of  the  Lucchcse 
ladies — when  they  not  only  drive,  but  draw  up  under  the 
plane-trees,  gossip,  and  eat  sweetmeats  and  ices — she  had 
answered,  in  a  tone  she  would  have  used  to  a  decrepit  dog 
who  troubled  her,  "  Shut  the  door  and  begone  !  " 

She  had  been  snappish  to  Enrica.  She  had  twitted  her 
with  wanting  to  go  to  the  Orsetti  ball,  although  Enrica 
had  never  been  to  any  ball  or  any  assembly  whatever  in 
her  life,  and  no  word  had  been  spoken  about  it.  Enrica 
never  did  speak ;  she  had  been  disciplined  into  silence. 

Enrica,  as  has  been  said,  was  the  marchesa's  niece,  and 
lived  with  her.  She  was  the  only  child  of  her  sister,  who 
died  when  she  was  born.  This  sister  (herself,  as  well  as 
the  marchesa,  born  Guinigi  Ruscellai)  had  also  married  a 
Guinigi,  a  distant  cousin  of  the  marchesa's  husband,  be 
longing  to  a  third  branch  of  the  family,  settled  at  Mantua. 


ENRICA.  45 

Of  this  collateral  branch,  all  had  died  out.  Antonio  Guinigi, 
of  Mantua,  Enrica's  father,  in  the  prime  of  life,  was  killed 
in  a  duel,  resulting  from  one  of  those  small  social  affronts 
that  so  frequently  do  provoke  duels  in  Italy.  (I  knew  a  cer 
tain  T who  called  out  a  certain  G because  G 

had  said  T 's  rooms  were  not  properly  carpeted.)  Gen 
erally  these  encounters  with  swords  are  as  trifling  in  their 
results  as  in  their  origin.  But  the  duel  in  question,  fought 
by  Antonio  Guinigi,  was  unfortunately  not  so.  He  died 
on  the  spot.  Enrica,  when  two  years  old,  was  an  orphan. 
Thus  it  came  that  she  had  known  no  home  but  the  home 
of  her  aunt.  The  marchesa  had  never  shown  her  any  par 
ticular  kindness.  She  had  ordered  her  servants  to  take 
care  of  her.  That  was  all.  Scarcely  ever  had  she  kissed 
her ;  never  passed  her  hand  among  the  sunny  curls  that 
fell  upon  the  quiet  child's  face  and  neck.  The  marchesa,  in 
fact,  had  not  so  much  as  noticed  her  childish  beauty  and 
enticing  ways. 

Enrica  had  grown  up  accustomed  to  bear  with  her 
aunt's  haughty,  ungracious  manners  and  capricious  tem 
per.  She  scarcely  knew  that  there  was  any  thing  to  bear. 
She  had  been  left  to  herself  as  long  as  she  could  remember 
any  thing.  A  peasant — Teresa,  her  foster-mother — had 
come  with  her  from  Mantua,  and  from  Teresa  alone  she  re 
ceived  such  affection  as  she  had  ever  known.  A  mere  ani 
mal  affection,  however,  which  lost  its  value  as  she  grew 
into  womanhood. 

Thus  it  was  that  Eurica  came  to  accept  the  marchesa's 
rough  tongue,  her  arrogance,  and  her  caprices,  as  a  normal 
state  of  existence.  She  never  complained.  If  she  suffered, 
it  was  in  silence.  To  reason  with  the  marchesa,  much 
more  dispute  with  her,  was  worse  than  useless.  She  was 
not  accustomed  to  be  talked  to,  certainly  not  by  her  niece. 
It  only  exasperated  her  and  fixed  her  more  doggedly  in 
whatever  purpose  she  might  have  in  hand.  But  there  was 


46  THE   ITALIANS. 

a  certain  stern  sense  of  justice  about  her  when  left  to  her 
self — if  only  the  demon  of  her  family  pride  were  not  aroused, 
then  she  was  inexorable — that  would  sometimes  come  to 
the  rescue.  Yet,  under  all  the  tyranny  of  this  neutral  life 
which  circumstances  had  imposed  on  her,  Enrica,  unknown 
to  herself — for  how  .should  she,  who  knew  so  little,  know 
herself? — grew  up  to  have  a  strong  will.  She  might  be 
bent,  but  she  would  never  break.  In  this  she  resembled 
the  marchesa.  Gentle,  loving,  and  outwardly  submissive, 
she  was  yet  passively  determined.  Even  the  marchesa 
came  to  be  dimly  conscious  of  this,  although  she  considered 
it  as  utterly  umimportant,  otherwise  than  to  punish  and  to 
repress. 

Shut  up  within  the  dreary  palace  at  Lucca,  or  in  the 
mountain  solitude  of  Corellia,  Enrica  yearned  for  freedom. 
She  was  like  a  young  bird,  full-fledged  and  strong,  that 
longs  to  leave  the  parent-nest — to  stretch  its  stout  wings 
on  the  warm  air — to  soar  upward  into  the  light ! 

Now  the  light  had  come  to  Enrica.  It  came  when  she 
first  saw  Count  Nobili.  It  shone  in  her  eyes,  it  dazzled 
her,  it  intoxicated  her.  On  that  day  a  new  world  opened 
before  her — a  fair  and  pleasant  world,  light  with  the  dawn 
of  love — a  world  as  different  as  golden  summer  to  the  win 
ter  of  her  home.  How  she  gloried  in  Nobili !  How  she 
loved  him  ! — his  comely  looks,  his  kindling  smile  (like  sun 
shine  everywhere),  his  lordly  ways,  his  triumphant  pros 
perity  !  He  had  come  to  her,  she  knew  not  how.  She  had 
never  sought  him.  He  had  come — come  like  fate.  She 
never  asked  herself  if  it  was  wrong  or  right  to  love  him. 
How  could  she  help  it?  Was  he  not  born  to  be  loved? 
Was  he  not  her  own — a  thousand  times  her  own — as  he 
told  her — "  forever  ?  "  She  believed  in  him  as  she  believed 
in  God.  She  neither  knew  nor  cared  whither  she  was  drift 
ing,  so  that  it  was  with  him !  She  was  as  one  sailing  with 
a  fair  wind  on  an  endless  sea — a  sea  full  of  sunlight — sail- 


ENRICA.  47 

ing  she  knew  not  where !  Think  no  evil  of  her,  I  pray  you. 
She  was  not  wicked  nor  deceitful — only  ignorant,  with  such 
ignorance  as  made  the  angels  fall. 

As  yet  Nobili  and  Enrica  had  only  met  in  such  manner 
as  has  been  told  by  old  Carlotta  to  her  gossip  Brigitta. 
Letters,  glances,  sighs,  had  passed  across  the  street,  from 
palace  to  palace  at  the  Venetian  casements — under  the 
darkly-ivied  archway  of  the  Moorish  garden — at  the  cathe 
dral  in  the  gray  evening  light,  or  in  the  earliest  glow  of 
summer  mornings — and  this,  so  seldom !  Every  time  they 
had  met  Nobili  implored  Enrica,  passionately,  to  escape 
from  the  thralldom  of  her  life,  implored  her  to  become  his 
wife.  With  his  pleading  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  he  asked  her 
"  why  she  should  sacrifice  him  to  the  senseless  pride  of 
her  aunt  ?  He  whose  whole  life  was  hers  ?  " 

But  Enrica  shrank  from  compliance,  with  a  secret  sense 
that  she  had  no  right  to  do  what  he  asked ;  no  right  to 
marry  without  her  aunt's  consent.  Her  love  was  her  own 
to  give.  She  had  thought  it  all  out  for  herself,  pacing  up 
and  down  under  the  cool  marble  arcades  of  the  Moorish 
garden,  the  splash  of  the  fountain  in  her  ears — Teresa 
had  told  her  the  same — her  love  was  her  own  to  give. 
What  had  her  aunt  done  for  her,  her  sister's  child,  but 
feed  and  clothe  her  ?  Indeed,  as  Teresa  said,  the  marchesa 
had  done  but  little  else.  Enrica  was  as  unconscious  as 
Teresa  of  those  marriage  schemes  of  her  aunt  which  cen 
tred  in  herself.  Had  she  known  what  was  reserved  for 
her,  she  would  better  have  understood  the  marchesa's  na 
ture  ;  then  she  might  have  acted  differently.  But  hereto 
fore  there  had  been  no  question  of  her  marriage.  Although 
she  was  seventeen,  she  had  always  been  treated  as  a  mere 
child.  She  scarcely  dared  to  speak  in  her  aunt's  presence, 
or  to  address  a  question  to  her.  Her  love,  then,  she 
thought,  was  her  own  to  bestow ;  but  more  ? — No,  no 
even  to  Nobili.  He  urged,  he  entreated,  he  reproached  her, 


48  THE   ITALIANS. 

but  in  vain.  He  implored  her  to  inform  the  marchesa  of 
their  engagement.  (Nobili  could  not  offer  to  do  this  him 
self  ;  the  marchesa  would  have  refused  to  admit  him  within 
her  door.)  But  Enrica  would  not  consent  to  do  even  this. 
She  knew  her  aunt  too  well  to  trust  her  with  her  secret. 
She  knew  that  she  was  both  subtle,  and,  where  her  own 
plans  were  concerned,  or  her  will  thwarted,  treacherous 
also. 

Enrica  had  been  taught  not  only  to  obey  the  marchesa 
implicitly,  but  never  to  dispute  her  will.  Hitherto  she  had 
had  no  will  but  hers.  How,  their,  could  she  all  at  once 
shake  off  the  feeling  of  awe,  almost  terror,  with  which  her 
aunt  inspired  her  ?  Besides,  was  not  the  very  sound  of 
Nobili's  name  abhorrent  to  her  ?  Why  the  marchesa  should 
abhor  him  or  his  name,  Enrica  could  not  tell.  It  was  a 
mystery  to  her  altogether  beyond  her  small  experience  of 
life.  But  it  was  so.  No,  she  would  say  nothing  ;  that  was 
safest.  The  marchesa,  if  displeased,  was  quite  capable  of 
carrying  her  away  from  Lucca  to  Corellia — perhaps  leaving 
her  there  alone  in  the  mountains.  She  might  even  shut  her 
up  in  a  convent  for  life  ! — Then  she  should  die  ! 

No,  she  would  say  nothing. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MAECHESA   GTJTNIGI  AT   HOME. 

THE  marchesa  was,  as  I  have  said,  in  a  very  bad  humor. 
She  had  by  no  means  recovered  from  what  she  conceived  to 
be  the  affront  put  upon  her  by  the  brilliant  display  made 
bv  Count  Nobili,  at  the  festival  of  the  Holy  Countenance, 
nor,  indeed,  from  the  festival  itself. 

She  had  had  the  satisfaction  of  shutting  up  her  palace, 
it  is  true ;  but  she  was  not  quite  sure  if  this  had  impressed 
the  public  mind  of  Lucca  as  she  had  intended.  She  felt 
painful  doubts  as  to  whether  the  splendors  opposite  had 
not  so  entirely  engrossed  public  attention  that  no  eye  was 
left  to  observe  any  thing  else — at  least,  in  that  street.  It 
was  possible,  she  thought,  that  another  year  it  might  be 
wiser  not  to  shut  up  her  palace  at  all,  but  so  far  to  over 
come  her  feelings  as  to  exhibit  the  superb  hangings,  the 
banners,  the  damask,  and  cloth  of  gold,  used  in  the  mediae 
val  festivals  and  processions,  and  thus  outdo  the  modern 
tinsel  of  Count  Nobili. 

Besides  the  festival,  and  Count  Nobili's  audacity,  the 
marchesa  had  a  further  cause  for  ill-humor.  No  one  had 
come  on  that  evening  to  play  her  usual  game  of  whist. 
Even  Trenta  had  deserted  her.  She  had  said  to  herself 
that  when  she — the  Marchesa  Guinigi  —  "received,"  no 
other  company,  no  other  engagement  whatever,  ought  to 
3 


50  THE   ITALIANS. 

interfere  with  the  honor  that  her  company  conferred.  These 
were  valid  causes  of  ill-humor  to  any  lady  of  the  marchesa's 
humor. 

She  was  seated  now  in  the  sitting-room  of  her  own  par 
ticular  suite,  one  of  three  small  and  rather  stuffy  rooms,  on 
the  second  floor.  These  rooms  consisted  of  an  anteroom, 
covered  with  a  cretonne  paper  of  blue  and  brown,  a  carpet- 
less  floor,  a  table,  and  some  common,  straw  chairs  placed 
against  the  wall.  From  the  anteroom  two  doors  led  into 
two  bedrooms,  one  on  either  side.  Another  door,  opposite 
the  entrance,  opened  into  the  sitting-room. 

All  the  windows  this  way  faced  toward  the  garden,  the 
wall  of  which  ran  parallel  to  the  palace  and  to  the  street. 
The  marchesa's  room  had  flaunting  green  walls  with  a  red 
border ;  the  ceiling  was  gaudily  painted  with  angels,  flowers, 
and  festoons.  Some  colored  prints  hung  on  the  walls — a 
portrait  of  the  Empress  Eugenie  on  horseback,  in  a  Spanish 
dress,  and  four  glaring  views  of  Vesuvius  in  full  eruption. 
A  divan,  covered  with  well-worn  chintz,  ran  round  two 
sides  of  the  room.  Between  the  ranges  of  the  graceful 
casements  stood  a  marble  console-table,  with  a  mirror  in  a 
black  frame.  An  open  card-table  was  placed  near  the  mar- 
chesa.  On  the  table  there  was  a  pack  of  not  over-clean 
cards,  some  markers,  and  a  pair  of  candles  (the  candles 
still  unlighted,  for  the  days  are  long,  and  it  is  only  six 
o'clock).  There  was  not  a  single  ornament  in  the  whole 
room,  nor  any  object  whatever  on  which  the  eye  could  rest 
with  pleasure.  White-cotton  curtains  concealed  the  deli 
cate  tracery  and  the  interlacing  columns  of  the  Venetian 
windows.  Beneath  lay  the  Moorish  garden,  entered  from 
the  street  by  an  arched  gate-way,  over  which  long  trails  of 
ivy  hung.  Beautiful  in  itself,  the  Moorish  garden  was  an 
incongruous  appendage  to  a  Gothic  palace.  One  of  the 
Guinigi,  commanding  for  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  in  Spain, 
saw  Granada  and  the  Alhambra.  On  his  return  to  Lucca, 


MARCIIESA   GUINIGI  AT   HOME.  51 

he  built  this  architectural  plaisance  on  a  bare  plot  of 
ground,  used  for  jousts  and  tilting.  That  is  its  history. 
There  it  has  been  since.  It  is  small — a  city  garden — belted 
inside  by  a  pointed  arcade  of  black-and-white  marble. 

In  the  centre  is  a  fountain.  The  glistening  waters 
shoot  upward  refreshingly  in  the  warm  evening  air,  to  fall 
back  on  the  heads  of  four  marble  lions,  supporting  a  marble 
basin.  Fine  white  gravel  covers  the  ground,  broken  by 
statues  and  vases,  and  tufts  of  flowering  shrubs  growing 
luxuriantly  under  the  shelter  of  the  arcade — many-colored 
altheas,  flaming  pomegranates,  graceful  pepper-trees  with 
bright,  beady  seeds,  and  magnolias,  as  stalwart  as  oaks, 
hanging  over  the  fountain. 

The  strong  perfume  of  the  magnolia-blossoms,  still 
white  upon  the  boughs,  is  wafted  upward  to  the  open  win 
dow  of  the  marchesa's  sitting-room ;  the  sun  is  low,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  pointed  arches  double  themselves  upon 
the  ground.  Shadows,  too,  high  up  the  horizon,  penetrate 
into  the  room,  and  strike  across  the  variegated  scagliola 
floor,  and  upon  a  table  in  the  centre,  on  which  a  silver  tray 
is  placed,  with  glasses  of  lemonade.  Round  the  table  are 
ranged  chairs  of  tarnished  gilding,  and  a  small  settee  with 
spindle-legs. 

In  her  present  phase  of  life,  the  squalor  of  these  rooms 
is  congenial  to  the  marchesa.  Hitherto  reckless  of  ex 
pense,  especially  in  law,  she  has  all  at  once  grown  parsi 
monious  to  excess.  As  to  the  effect  this  change  may  pro 
duce  on  others,  and  whether  this  mode  of  life  is  in  keeping 
with  the  stately  palace  she  inhabits,  the  marchesa  does  not 
care  in  the  least ;  it  pleases  her,  that  is  enough.  All  her 
life  she  has  been  quite  clear  on  two  points — her  belief  in 
herself,  and  her  belief  in  the  name  she  bears. 

The  marchesa  leans  back  on  a  high-backed  chair  and 
frowns.  To  frown  is  so  habitual  to  her  that  the  wrinkles 
on  her  forehead  and  between  her  eyebrows  are  prematurely 


52  THE  ITALIANS. 

deepened.  She  has  a  long,  sallow  face,  a  straight  nose, 
keen  black  eyes,  a  high  forehead,  and  a  thin-lipped  mouth. 
She  is  upright,  and  well  made ;  and  the  folds  of  her  plain 
black  dress  hang  about  her  tall  figure  with  a  certain  dig" 
nity.  Her  dark  hair,  now  sprinkled  with  white,  is  fully 
dressed,  the  bands  combed  low  on  her  forehead.  She 
wears  no  ornament,  except  the  golden  cross  of  a  chanoi- 
nesse. 

As  she  leans  back  on  her* high-backed  chair  she  silently 
observes  her  niece,  seated  near  the  open  window,  knitting. 

"  If  she  had  been  my  child ! "  was  the  marchesa's 
thought.  "  Why  -was  I  denied  a  child  ?  "  And  she  sighed. 

The  rays  of  the  setting  sun  dance  among  the  ripples  of 
Enrica's  blond  hair,  and  light  up  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
her  skin.  Seen  thus  in  profile,  although  her  features  are 
regular,  and  her  expression  full  of  sweetness,  it  is  rather 
the  promise  than  the  perfection  of  actual  beauty — the  rose 
bud — by-and-by  to  expand  into  the  perfect  flower. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  ruddy  old  face 
looked  in.  It  is  the  Cavaliere  Trenta,  in  his  official  blue 
coat  and  gold  buttons,  nankeen  inexpressibles,  a  broad- 
brimmed  white  hat  and  a  gold-headed  cane  in  his  hand. 
Whatever  speck  of  dust  might  have  had  the  audacity  to 
venture  to  settle  itself  upon  any  part  of  the  cavaliere's 
official  blue  coat,  must  at  once  have  hidden  its  diminished 
head  after  peeping  at  the  cavaliere's  beaming  countenance, 
so  scrubbed  and  shiny,  the  white  hair  so  symmetrically 
arranged  upon  his  forehead  in  little  curls — his  whole  ap 
pearance  so  neat  and  trim. 

"  Is  it  permitted  to  enter  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling  blandly 
at  the  marchesa,  as,  leaning  upon  his  stick,  he  made  her  a 
ceremonious  bow. 

"  Yes,  Cesarino,  yes,  you  may  enter,"  she  replied,  stiff 
ly.  "I  cannot  very  well  send  you  away  now — but  you 
deserve  it." 


MARCHESA  GUINIGI  AT  HOME.  53 

"  Why,  most  distinguished  lady  ?  "  again  asked  Trenta, 
submissively,  closing  the  door,  and  advancing  to  where  she 
sat.  He  bent  down  his  head  and  kissed  her  hand,  then 
smiled  at  Enrica.  "  What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Done  ?  You  know  you  never  came  last  night  at  all. 
I  missed  my  game  of  whist.  I  do  not  sleep  well  without 
it." 

"  But,  marchesa,"  pleaded  Trenta,  in  the  gentlest  voice, 
"  I  am  desolated,  as  you  can  conceive — desolated ;  but 
what  could  I  do  ?  Yesterday  was  the  festival  of  the  Holy 
Countenance,  that  solemn  anniversary  that  brings  prosper 
ity  to  our  dear  city ! "  And  the  cavaliere  cast  up  his  mild 
blue  eyes,  and  crossed  himself  upon  the  breast.  "I  was 
most  of  the  day  in  the  cathedral.  Such  a  service !  Better 
music  than  last  year.  In  the  evening  I  had  promised  to 
arrange  the  cotillon  at  Countess  Orsetti's  ball.  As  cham 
berlain  to  his  late  highness  the  Duke  of  Lucca,  it  is  ex 
pected  of  me  to  organize  every  thing.  One  can  leave  noth 
ing  to  that  animal  Baldassare — he  has  no  head,  no  system ; 
he  dances  well,  but  like  a  machine.  The  ball  was  mag 
nificent — a  great  success,"  he  continued,  speaking  rapidly, 
for  he  saw  that  a  storm  was  gathering  on  the  marchesa's 
brow,  by  the  deepening  of  the  wrinkles  between  her  eyes. 
"  A  great  success.  I  took  a  few  turns  myself  with  Teresa 
Ottolini — tra  la  la  la  la,"  and  he  swayed  his  head  and 
shoulders  to  and  fro  as  he  hummed  a  waltz-tune. 

"  Ybuf"  exclaimed  the  marchesa,  staring  at  him  with 
a  look  of  contempt — "  you  !  " 

"  Yes.  Why  not  ?  I  am  as  young  as  ever,  dear  mar 
chesa — eighty,  the  prime  of  life !  " 

"  The  festival  of  the  Holy  Countenance  and  the  cotil 
lon  ! "  cried  the  marchesa,  with  great  indignation.  "  Tell 
me  nothing  about  the  Orsetti  ball.  I  won't  listen  to  it. 
Good  Heavens ! "  she  continued,  reddening,  "  I  am  thirty 
years  younger  than  you  are,  but  I  left  off  dancing  fifteen 


54  THE  ITALIANS. 

years  ago.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Cesari- 
no!" 

Cesarino  only,  smiled  at  her  benignantly  in  reply.  She 
had  called  him  a  fool  so  often  !  He  seated  himself  beside 
her  without  speaking.  He  had  come  prepared  to  entertain 
her  with  an  account  of  every  detail  of  the  ball ;  but  seeing 
the  temper  she  was  in,  he  deemed  it  more  prudent  to  be 
silent — to  be  silent  specially  about  Count  Nobili.  The 
mention  of  his  name  would,  he  knew,  put  her  in  a  fury,  so, 
being  a  prudent  man,  and  a  courtier,  he  entirely  dropped 
the  subject  of  the  ball.  Yet  Trenta  was  a  privileged  per 
son.  He  never  voluntarily  contradicted  the  marchesa,  but 
when  occasion  arose  he  always  spoke  his  mind,  fearless  of 
consequences.  As  he  and  the  marchesa  disagreed  on  al 
most  every  possible  subject,  disputes  often  arose  between 
them ;  but,  thanks  to  Trenta's  pliant  temper  and  perfect 
good-breeding,  they  were  al \vays  amicably  settled. 

"  Count  Marescotti  and  Baldassare  are  outside,"  con 
tinued  Trenta,  looking  at  her  inquiringly,  as  the  marchesa 
had  not  spoken.  "  They  are  waiting  to  know  if  the  illus 
trious  lady  receives  this  evening,  and  if  she  will  permit 
them  to  join  her  usual  whist-party." 

"  Marescotti ! — where  may  he  come  from  ? — the  clouds, 
perhaps — or  the  last  balloon  ?  "  asked  the  marchesa,  look 
ing  up. 

"  From  Rome ;  he  arrived  two  days  ago.  He  is  no  lon 
ger  so  erratic.  Will  you  allow  him  to  join  us  ?  " 

"I  shall  certainly  play  my  rubber  if  I  am  permitted," 
answered  the  marchesa,  drawing  herself  up. 

This  was  intended  as  a  sarcastic  reminder  of  the  disre 
gard  shown  to  her  by  the  cavaliere  the  evening  before; 
but  the  sarcasm  was  quite  thrown  away  upon  Trenta ;  he 
wTas  very  simple  and  straightforward. 

"  The  marchesa  has  only  to  command  me,"  was  his  po 
lite  reply.  "  I  wonder  Marescotti  and  Baldassare  are  not 


MARCHESA   GUINIGI  AT   HOME.  55 

here  already,"  he  added,  looking  toward  the  door.  "  I  left 
them  both  in  the  street ;  they  were  to  follow  me  up-stairs 
immediately." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  marchesa,  smiling  sarcastically,  "  Count 
Marescotti  is  not  to  be  trusted.  Pie  is  a  genius — he  may 
be  back  on  his  way  to  Rome  by  this  time." 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Trenta,  rising  and  walking  toward 
the  door,  which  he  opened  and  held  in  his  hand,  while  he 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  staircase ;  "  Marescotti  is  dis 
gusted  with  Rome — with  the  Parliament,  with  the  Govern 
ment — with  every  thing.  He  abuses  the  municipality  be 
cause  a  secret  republican  committee  which  he  headed,  in 
correspondence  with  Paris,  has  been  discovered  by  the 
police  and  denounced.  He  had  to  escape  in  disguise." 

"  Well,  well,  I  rejoice  to  hear  it ! "  broke  in  the  mar 
chesa.  "  It  is  a  good  Government ;  let  him  find  a  better. 
\Vhyhas  he  come  to  Lucca?  We  want  no  suns-culottes 
here." 

"  Marescotti  declares,"  continued  the  cavaliere,  "  that 
even  now  Rome  is  still  in  bondage,  and  sunk  in  supersti 
tion.  He  calls  it  superstition.  He  would  like  to  shut  up 
all  the  churches.  He  believes  in  nothing  but  poetry  and 
Red  republicans.  Any  kind  of  Christian  belief  he  calls  su 
perstition." 

"Marescotti  is  quite  right,"  said  the  marchesa,  angrily; 
she  was  determined  to  contradict  the  cavaliere.  "  You  are 
a  bigot,  Trenta — an  old  bigot.  You  believe  every  thing  a 
priest  tells  you.  A  fine  exhibition  we  had  yesterday  of 
what  that  comes  to !  The  Holy  Countenance !  Do  you 
think  any  educated  person  in  Lucca  belives  in  the  Holy 
Countenance  ?  I  do  not.  It  is  only  an  excuse  for  idleness 
— for  idleness,  I  say.  Priests  love  idleness ;  they  go  into 
the  Church  because  they  are  too  idle  to  work."  She  raised 
her  voice,  and  looked  defiantly  at  Trenta,  who  stood  before 
her  the  picture  of  meek  endurance — holding  the  door- 


56  THE   ITALIANS. 

handle.  "  I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  all  festivals  abolished. 
Why  didn't  the  Government  do  it  altogether  when  they 
were  about  it  ? — no  convents,  no  monks,  no  holidays,  ex 
cept  on  Sunday  !  Make  the  people  work — work  for  their 
bread  !  We  should  have  fewer  taxes,  and  no  beggars." 

Trenta's  benignant  face  had  gradually  assumed  as 
severe  an  aspect  as  it  was  capable  of  bearing.  He  pointed 
to  Enrica,  of  whom  he  had  up  to  this  time  taken  no  notice 
beyond  a  friendly  smile — the  marchesa  did  not  like  Enrica 
to  be  noticed — now  he  pointed  to  her,  and  shook  his  head 
deprecatingly.  Could  he  have  read  Enrica's  thoughts,  he 
need  have  feared  no  contamination  to  her  from  the  mar 
chesa  ;  her  thoughts  were  far  away — she  had  not  listened 
to  a  single  word. 

"  Dio  Santo  !  "  he  exclaimed  at  last,  clasping  his  hands 
together  and  speaking  low,  so  as  not  to  be  overheard  by 
Enrica — "  that  I  should  live  to  hear  a  Guinigi  talk  so  ! 
Do  you  forget,  marchesa,  that  it  was  under  the  banner  of 
the  blessed  Holy  Countenance  ( Vulturum  dl  Lucca), 
miraculously  cast  on  the  shores  of  the  Ligurian  Sea,  that 
your  great  ancestor  Castruccio  Castracani  degli  Antinielli 
overcame  the  Florentines  at  Alto  Passo  ?  " 

"  The  banner  didn't  help  him,  nor  St.  Nicodemus  either 
— I  affirm  that,"  answered  she,  angrily.  Her  temper  was 
rising.  "I  will  not  be  contradicted,  cavaliere — don't  at 
tempt  it.  I  never  allow  it.  Even  my  husband  never  con 
tradicted  me — and  he  was  a  Guinigi.  Is  the  city  to  go 
mad,  eat,  drink,  and  hang  out  old  curtains  because  the 
priests  bid  them  ?  Did  you  see  Nobili's  house  ?  "  She 
asked  this  question  so  eagerly,  she  suddenly  forgot  her 
anger  in  the  desire  she  felt  to  relate  her  injuries.  "A 
Guinigi  palace  dressed  out  like  a  booth  at  a  fair ! — What 
a  scandal !  This  comes  of  usury  and  banking.  He  will  be 
a  deputy  soon.  Will  no  one  tell  him  he  is  a  presumptuous 
young  idiot  ?  "  she  cried,  with  a  burst  of  sudden  rage,  re- 


MARCHESA   GDINIGI  AT   HOME.  57 

memberiug  the  crowds  that  filled  the  streets,  and  the  ad 
miration  and  display  excited.  Then,  turning  round  and 
looking  Trenta  full  in  the  face,  she  added  spitefully,  "  You 
may  worship  painted  dolls,  and  kiss  black  crucifixes,  if  you 
like :  I  would  not  give  them  house-room." 

"  Mercy  !  "  cried  poor  Trenta,  putting  his  hands  to  his 
ears.  "  For  pity's  sake — the  palace  will  fall  about  your 
ears  !  Remember  your  niece  is  present." 

And  again  he  pointed  to  Enrica,  whose  head  was  bent 
dowTn  over  her  work. 

"  Ha  !  ha  ! "  was  all  the  reply  vouchsafed  by  the  mar- 
chesa,  followed  by  a  scornful  laugh.  "  I  shall  say  what  I 
please  in  my  own  house.  Poor  Cesarino !  You  are  very 
ignorant.  I  pity  you  ! " 

But  Trenta  was  not  there — he  had  rushed  down-stairs 
as  quickly  as  his  old  legs  and  his  stick  would  carry  him, 
and  was  out  of  hearing.  At  the  mention  of  Nobili's  name 
Enrica  looked  stealthily  from  under  her  long  eyelashes, 
and  turned  very  white.  The  sharp  eyes  of  her  aunt  might 
have  detected  it  had  she  been  less  engrossed  by  her  pas 
sage  of  arms  with  the  cavaliere. 

"  Ha  !  ha ! "  she  repeated,  grimly  laughing  to  herself. 
"  He  is  gone  !  Poor  old  soul !  But  I  am  going  to  have 
my  rubber  for  all  that. — Ring  the  bell,  Enrioa.  He  must 
come  back.  Trenta  takes  too  much  upon  himself;  he  is 
always  interfering." 

As  Enrica  rose  to  obey  her  aunt,  the  sound  of  feet  was 
heard  in  the  anteroom.  The  marchesa  made  a  sign  to  her 
to  reseat  herself,  which  she  did  in  the  same  place  as  before, 
behind  the  thick  cotton  curtains  of  the  Venetian  casement. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

COUNT   MAKESCOTTI. 

COUNT  MAKESCOTTI,  the  Red  count  (the  marchesa  had 
said  sans-culotte;  Trenta  had  spoken  of  him  as  an  atheist), 
was,  unhappily,  something  of  all  this,  but  he  was  much 
more.  He  was  a  poet,  an  orator,  and  a  patriot.  Nature 
had  gifted  him  with  qualities  for  each  vocation.  He  had 
a  rich,  melodious  voice,  with  soft  inflections ;  large  dark 
eyes,  that  kindled  with  the  impress  of  every  emotion; 
finely-cut  features,  and  a  pale,  bloodless  face,  that  tells  of 
a  passionate  nature.  His  manners  were  gracious,  and  he 
had  a  commanding  presence.  He  was  born  to  be  a  leader 
among  men.  Not  only  did  he  converse  with  ease  and 
readiness  on*  every  conceivable  topic — not  only  did  strophe 
after  strophe  of  musical  verse  flow  from  his  lips  with  the 
facility  of  an  improvisator e^  but  he  possessed  the  supreme 
art  of  moving  the  multitude  by  an  eloquence  born  of  his 
own  impassioned  soul.  While  that  suave  voice  rung  in 
men's  ears,  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  convinced  by  his 
arguments.  As  a  patriot,  he  worshiped  Italy.  His  fervid 
imagination  reveled  in  her  natural  beauties — art,  music, 
history,  poetry.  He  worshiped  Italy,  and  he  devoted  his 
whole  life  to  what  he  conceived  to  be  her  good. 

Marescotti  was  no  atheist ;  he  was  a  religious  reformer, 
sincerely  and  profoundly  pious,  and  conscientious  to  the 


COUNT   MARESCOTTI.  59 

point  of  honor.  Indeed,  his  conscience  was  so  sensitive, 
that  he  had  been  known  to  confess  two  and  three  times  on 
the  same  day.  The  cavaliere  called  him  an  atheist  because 
he  was  a  believer  in  Savonarola,  and  because  he  positive 
ly  refused  to  bind  himself  to  any  priestly  dogma,  or  special 
form  of  worship  whatever.  But  he  had  never  renounced 
the  creed  of  his  ancestors.  The  precepts  of  Savonarola  did, 
indeed,  afford  him  infinite  consolation ;  they  were  to  him 
a  via  media  between  Protestant  latitude  and  dogmatic 
belief. 

The  republican  simplicity,  stern  morals,  and  sweeping 
reforms  both  in  Church  and  state  preached  by  Savonarola 
(reforms,  indeed,  as  radical  as  were  consistent  with  Cathol 
icism),  were  the  objects  of  his  special  reverence.  Savo 
narola  had  died  at  the  stake  for  practising  and  for  teaching 
them  ;  Marescotti  declared,  with  characteristic  enthusiasm, 
that  he  was  ready  to  do  likewise.  Wrong  or  right,  he  be 
lieved  that,  if  Savonarola  had  lived  in  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury,  he  would  have  acted  as  he  himself  had  done.  In  the 
same  manner,  although  an  avowed  republican,  he  was  no 
sans-culotte.  His  strong  sense  of  personal  independence 
and  of  freedom,  political  and  religious,  caused  him  to  revolt 
against  what  he  conceived  tyranny  or  coercion  of  any  kind. 
Even  constitutional  monarchy  was  not  sufficiently  free  for 
him.  A  king  and  a  court,  the  royal  prerogative  of  minis 
ters,  patent  places,  pensions,  favors,  the  unacknowledged 
influence  of  a  reigning  house — represented  to  his  mind  a 
modified  system  of  tyranny — therefore  of  corruption.  Con 
stant  appeals  to  the  sovereign  people,  a  form  of  government 
where  the  few  yielded  to  the  many,  and  the  rich  divided 
their  riches  voluntarily  with  the  poor — was  in  theory  what 
he  advocated. 

Yet  with  these  lofty  views,  these  grand  aspirations,  with 
unbounded  faith,  and  unbounded  energy  and  generosity, 
Marescotti  achieved  nothing.  He  wanted  the  power  of 


60  THE  ITALIANS. 

concentration,  of  bringing  his  energies  to  bear  on  any 
one  particular  object.  His  mind  was  like  an  old  cabinet, 
crowded  with  artistic  rubbish — gems  and  rarities,  jewels 
of  price  and  pearls  of  the  purest  water,  hidden  among 
faded  flowers ;  old  letters,  locks  of  hair,  daggers,  tinsel  reli 
quaries,  crosses,  and  modern  grimcracks — all  that  was  in 
congruous,  piled  together  pell-mell  in  hopeless  confusion. 

His  countrymen,  singularly  timid  and  conventional,  and 
always  unwilling  to  admit  new  ideas  upon  any  subject  un 
less  imperatively  forced  upon  them,  did  not  understand 
him.  They  did  not  appreciate  either  his  originality  or  the 
real  strength  of  his  character.  He  differed  from  them  and 
their  mediasval  usages — therefore  he  must  be  wrong.  He 
was  called  eccentric  by  his  friends,  a  lunatic  by  his  ene 
mies.  He  was  neither.  But  he  lived  much  alone ;  he  had 
dreamed  rather  than  reflected,  and  he  had  planned  instead 
of  acting. 

"  Count  Marescotti,"  said  the  marchesa,  holding  out 
her  hand,  "  I  salute  you. — Baldassare,  you  are  welcome." 

The  intonation  of  her  voice,  the  change  in  her  manner, 
gave  the  exact  degree  of  consideration  proper  to  accord  to 
the  head  of  an  ancient  Roman  family,  and  the  dandy  son  of 
a  Lucca  chemist.  And,  lest  it  should  be  thought  strange 
that  the  Marchesa  Guinigi  should  admit  Baldassare  at  all 
to  her  presence,  I  must  explain  that  Baldassare  was  apro- 
tkgk,  almost  a  double,  of  the  cavaliere,  who  insisted  upon 
taking  him  wherever  he  went.  If  you  received  the  cava 
liere,  you  must,  perforce,  receive  Baldassare  also.  No  one 
could  explain  why  this  was  so.  They  were  continually 
quarreling,  yet  they  were  always  together.  Their  intimacy 
had  been  the  subject  of  many  jokes  and  some  gossip ;  but 
the  character  of  the  -cavaliere  was  immaculate,  and  Baldas- 
sare's  mother  (now  dead)  had  never  lived  at  Lucca.  Trenta, 
when  spoken  to  on  the  subject  of  his  partiality,  said  he  was 
"  educating  him  "  to  fill  his  place  as  master  of  the  ceremo- 


COUNT  MARESCOTTI.  61 

nies  in  Lucchcse  society.  Except  when  specially  bullied 
by  the  cavaliere — who  greatly  enjoyed  tormenting  him  in 
public — Baldassare  was  inoffensive  and  useful. 

Now  he  pressed  forward  to  the  front. 

"  Signora  Marchesa,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "  allow  me  to 
make  my  excuses  to  you." 

'  The  marchesa  turned  a  surprised  and  distant  gaze  upon 
him  ;  but  Baldassare  was  not  to  be  discouraged.  He  had 
that  tough  skin  of  true  vulgarity  which  is  impervious  to 
any  thing  but  downright  hard  blows. 

"  Allow  me  to  make  my  excuses,"  he  continued.  "  The 
cavaliere  here  has.  been  scolding  me  all  the  way  up-stairs 
for  not  bringing  Count  Marescotti  sooner  to  you.  I  could 
not." 

Marescotti  bowed  an  acquiescence. 

"  While  we  were  standing  in  the  street,  waiting  to 
know  if  the  noble  lady  received,  an  old  beggar,  known  in 
Lucca  as  the  Hermit  of  Pizzorna,  come  down  from  the 
mountains  for  the  festival,  passed  by." 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  providence,"  broke  in  the  count — "  a 
real  hermit,  not  one  of  those  fat  friars,  with  shaven  crowns, 
we  have  in  Rome,  but  a  genuine  recluse,  a  man  whose  life 
is  one  long  act  of  practical  piety." 

When  Marescotti  had  entered,  he  seemed  only  the  calm, 
high-bred  gentleman ;  now,  as  he  spoke,  his  eye  sparkled, 
and  his  pale  cheeks  flushed. 

"  Yes,  I  addressed  the  hermit,"  he  continued,  and  he 
raised  his  fine  head  and  crossed  his  hands  on  his  breast  as 
if  he  were  still  before  him.  "  I  kissed  his  bare  feet,  road- 
stained  with  errands  of  charity.  '  My  father,'  I  said  to  him, 
'  bless  me '— " 

"Not  only  so,"  interrupted  Baldassare,  "but,  would 
you  believe  it,  madame,  the  count  cast  himself  down  on 
the  dusty  street  to  receive  his  blessing ! " 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  asked  the  count,  looking  at  him  se- 


62  THE   ITALIANS. 

verely.  "  It  came  to  me  like  a  voice  from  heaven.  The 
hermit  is  a  holy  man.  Would  I  were  like  him  !  I  have 
heard  of  him  for  thirty  years  past.  Winter  after  winter, 
among  those  savage  mountains,  in  roaring  winds,  in  sweep 
ing  storms,  in  frost  and  snow,  and  water-floods,  he  has  as 
sisted  hundreds,  who,  but  for  him,  must  infallibly  have  per 
ished.  What  courage  !  what  devotion  !  It  is  a  poem." 
Marescotti  spoke  hurriedly  and  in  a  low  voice.  "Yes,  I 
craved  his  blessing.  I  kissed  his  hands,  his  feet.  I  would 
have  kissed  the  ground  on  which  he  stood."  As  he  pro 
ceeded,  Marescotti  grew  more  and  more  abstracted.  All 
that  he  described  was  passing  like  a  vision  before  him. 
"  Those  venerable  hands — yes,  I  kissed  them. 

"  How  much  money  did  you  leave  in  them,  count  ?  " 
asked  the  marchesa,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Great  is  the  mercy  of  God !  "  ejaculated  the  count, 
earnestly,  not  heeding  her.  "  Sinner  as  I  am,  the  touch  of 
those  hands — that  blessing — purified  me.  I  feel  it." 

"  Incredible  !  Well,"  cried  Baldassare,  "  the  price  of 
that  blessing  will  keep  the  good  man  in  bread  and  meat 
for  a  year.  Let  the  old  beggar  go  to  the  devil,  count,  his 
own  way.  He  must  soon  appear  there,  anyhow.  A  good- 
for-nothing  old  cheat !  His  blessing,  indeed  !  I  can  get 
you  a  dozen  begging  friars  who  will  bless  you  all  day  for 
a  few  farthings." 

The  count's  brow  darkened. 

"Baldassare,"  said  he,  very  gravely,  "you  are  }Toung, 
and,  like  your  age,  inconsiderate.  I  request  that,  in  my 
presence,  you  speak  with  becoming  respect  of  this  holy 
man." 

"  Per  Bacco  !  "  exclaimed  the  cavaliere,  advancing  from 
where  he  had  been  standing  behind  the  marchesa's  chair, 
and  patting  Baldassare  patronizingly  on  the  shoulder,  "  I 
never  heard  you  talk  so  much  before  at  one  time,  Baldas 
sare.  Now,  you  had  better  have  held  your  tongue,  and 


COUNT  MARESCOTTI.  63 

listened  to  Count  Marescotti.  Leading  the  cotillon  last 
night  has  turned  your  head.  Take  my  advice,  however — 
an  old  man's  advice — stick  to  your  dancing.  You  under 
stand  that.  Every  man  has  his  forte — yours  is  the  ball 
room." 

Baldassare  smiled  complaisantly  at  this  allusion  to  the 
swiftness  of  his  heels. 

"Out  of  the  ballroom,"  continued  Trenta,  eying  him 
with  quiet  scorn,  "  I  advise  caution — great  caution.  Out 
of  the  ballroom  you  are  capable  of  any  imbecility." 

"  Cavaliere  ! "  cried  Baldassare,  turning  very  red  and 
looking  at  him  reproachfully. 

"  You  have  deserved  this  reproof,  young  man,"  said  the 
marchesa,  harshly.  "  Learn  your  place  in  addressing  the 
Count  Marescotti." 

That  the  son  of  a  shopkeeper  should  presume  to  dispute 
in  her  presence  with  a  Roman  noble,  was  a  thing  so  un 
suitable  that,  even  in  her  own  house,  she  must  put  it  down 
authoritatively.  She  had  never  liked  Baldassare — never 
wanted  to  receive  him,  now  she  resolved  never  to  see  him 
again ;  but,  as  she  feared  that  Trenta  would  continue  to 
bring  him,  under  pretext  of  making  up  her  whist-table,  she 
did  not  say  so. 

The  medical  Adonis  was  forced  to  swallow  his  rage,  but 
his  cheeks  tingled.  He  dared  not  quarrel  either  with  the 
marchesa,  Trenta,  or  the  count,  by  whose  joint  support 
alone  he  could  hope  to  plant  himself  firmly  in  the  realms 
of  Lucchese  fashionable  life — a  life  which  he  felt  was  his 
element.  Utterly  disconcerted,  however,  he  turned  down 
his  eyes,  and  stared  at  his  boots,  which  were  highly  glazed, 
then  glanced  up  at  his  own  face  (as  faultless  and  impassive 
as  a  Greek  mask)  in  a  mirror  opposite,  hastily  arranged  his 
hair,  and  finally  collapsed  into  silence  and  a  corner. 

At  this  moment  Count  Marescotti  became  suddenly 
aware  of  Enrica's  presence.  She  was,  as  I  have  said,  sit- 


64  THE   ITALIANS. 

ting  in  the  same  place  by  the  casement,  concealed  by  the 
curtain,  her  head  bent  down  over  her  knitting.  She  had 
only  looked  up  once  when  Nobili's  name  had  been  men 
tioned.  No  one  had  noticed  her.  It  was  not  the  usage 
of  Casa  Guinigi  to  notice  Enrica.  Enrica  was  not  the 
marchesa's  daughter ;  therefore,  except  in  marriage,  she 
was  not  entitled  to  enjoy  the  honors  of  the  house.  She 
was  never  permitted  to  take  part  in  conversation. 

Marescotti,  who  had  not  seen  her  since  she  was  fourteen, 
now  bounded  across  the  room  to  where  she  sat,  overshad 
owed  by  the  curtain,  bowed  to  her  formally,  then  touched 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  with  his  lips. 

Enrica  raised  her  eyes.  And  what  e}Tes  they  were! — 
large,  melancholy,  brooding,  of  no  certain  color,  changing 
as  she  spoke,  as  the  summer  sky  changes  the  color  of  the 
sea.  They  were  more  gray  than  blue,  yet  they  were  blue, 
with  long,  dark  eyelashes  that  swept  upon  her  cheeks.  As 
she  looked  up  and  smiled,  there  was  an  expression  of  the 
most  perfect  innocence  in  her  face.  It  \vas  like  a  flower 
that  opens  its  bosom  frankly  to  the  sun. 

Marescotti's  artistic  nature  was  deeply  stirred.  He 
gazed  at  her  in  silence  for  some  minutes ;  he  was  seeking 
in  his  own  mind  in  what  type  cf  womanhood  he  should 
place  her.  Suddenly  an  idea  struck  him. — She  was  the 
living  image  of  the  young  Madonna — the  young  Madonna 
before  the  visit  of  the  archangel — pale,  meditative,  pathet 
ic,  but  with  no  shadow  of  the  future  upon  her  face.  Mare 
scotti  was  so  engrossed  by  this  idea  that  he  remained  mo 
tionless  before  her.  Each  one  present  observed  his  emotion, 
the  marchesa  specially ;  she  frowned  her  disapproval. 

Trenta  laughed  quietly  to  himself,  then  stroked  his  well- 
shaved  chin. 

"  Signorina,"  said  the  count,  at  length  breaking  silence, 
"  permit  me  to  offer  my  excuses  for  not  having  sooner  per 
ceived  you.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 


COUNT   MARESCOTTI.  65 

"  Mio  Dio  !  "  muttered  the  marchesa  to  herself,  "  he  will 
turn  the  child's  head  with  his  fine  phrases." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  count,"  answered  Enrica 
simply.  She  spoke  low.  Her  voice  matched  the  expres 
sion  of  her  face ;  there  was  a  natural  tone  of  plaintiveness 
in  it. 

"  When  I  last  saw  you,"  continued  the  count,  stand 
ing  as  if  spellbound  before  her,  "you  were  only  a  child. 
Now,"  and  his  kindling  eyes  riveted  themselves  upon  her, 
"you  are  a  woman.  Like  the  magic  rose  that  was  the 
guerdon  of  the  Troubadours,  you  have  passed  in  an  hour 
from  leaf  to  bud,  from  bud  to  fairest  flower.  You  were, 
of  course,  at  the  Orsetti  ball  last  night  ?  "  He  asked  this 
question,  trying  to  rouse  himself.  "  What  ball  in  Lucca 
would  be  complete  without  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  there,"  answered  Enrica,  blushing  deeply 
and  glancing  timidly  at  the  marchesa,  who,  with  a  scowl 
on  her  face,  was  fanning  herself  violently. 

"  Not  there  !  "  ejaculated  Marescotti,  with  wonder. — 
"  Why,  marchesa,  is  it  not  barbarous  to  shut  up  your  beau 
tiful  niece  ?  Is  it  because  you  deem  her  too  precious  to  be 
gazed  upon  ?  If  so,  you  are  right." 

And  again  his  eyes,  full  of  ardent  admiration,  were  bent 
on  Enrica. 

Enrica  dropped  her  head  to  hide  her  confusion,  and  re 
sumed  her  knitting. 

It  was  a  golden  sunset.  The  sun  was  sinking  behind 
the  delicate  arcades  of  the  Moorish  garden,  and  spreading 
broad  patches  of  rosy  light  upon  the  marble.  The  shrubs, 
with  their  bright  flowers,  were  set  against  a  tawny  orange 
sky.  The  air  was  full  of  light — the  last  gleams  of  parting 
day.  The  splash  of  the  fountain  upon  the  lions'  heads  was 
heard  in  the  silence,  the  heavy  perfume  of  the  magnolia- 
flowers  stole  in  wafts  through  the  sculptured  casements, 
creeping  upward  in  the  soft  evening  air. 


66  THE   ITALIANS. 

Still,  motionless  before  Enrica,  Marescotti  was  rapidly 
falling  into  a  poetic  rapture.  The  marchesa  broke  tlie  awk 
ward  silence. 

"  Enrica  is  a  cliild,"  she  said,  dryly.  "  She  knows  noth 
ing  about  balls.  She  has  never  been  to  one.  Pray  do  not 
put  such  ideas  into  her  head,  count,"  she  added,  looking  at 
him  angrily. 

"  But,  marchesa,  your  niece  is  no  child — she  is  a  lovely 
woman,"  insisted  the  count,  his  eyes  still  riveted  upon  her. 
The  marchesa  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  answer  him. 

Meanwhile  the  cavaliere,  who  had  returned  to  his  seat 
near  her,  had  watched  the  moment  when  no  one  was  look 
ing  that  way,  had  given  her  a  significant  glance,  and  placed 
his  finger  warningly  upon  his  lip. 

Not  understanding  what  he  meant  by  this  action,  the 
marchesa  was  at  first  inclined  to  resent  it  as  a  liberty,  and 
to  rebuke  him ;  but  she  thought  better  of  it,  and  only 
glanced  at  him  haughtily. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  found  it  to  her  advan 
tage  to  accept  Trenta's  hints.  Trenta  was  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  he  had  his  eyes  open.  What  he  meant,  how 
ever,  she  could  not  even  guess. 

Meanwhile  the  count  had  drawn  a  chair  beside  Enrica. 

"  Yes,  yes,  the  Orsetti  ball,"  he  said,  absently,  passing 
his  hand  through  the  masses  of  bluck  curls  that  rested  upon 
his  forehead. 

He  was  following  out,  in  his  own  mind,  the  notion  of 
addressing  an  ode  to  her  in  the  character  of  the  young  Ma 
donna — the  uninstructed  Madonna — without  that  look  of 
pensive  suffering  painters  put  into  her  eyes. 

The  Madonna  figured  prominently  in  Marescotti's  creed, 
spite  of  his  belief  in  the  stern  precepts  of  Savonarola — the 
plastic  creed  of  an  artist,  made  up  of  heavenly  eyes,  ravish 
ing  forms,  melodious  sounds,  rich  color,  sweeping  rhythms, 
moonlight,  and  violent  emotions. 


COUNT  MARESCOTTI.  67 

"I  was  not  there  myself — no,  or  I  should  have  been 
aware  you  had  not  honored  the  Countess  Orsetti  with  your 
presence.  But  in  the  morning — that  glorious  mass  in  the 
old  cathedral — you  were  there  ?  " 

Enrica  answered  that  she  had  not  left  the  house  all  day, 
at  which  the  count  raised  his  eyebrows  in  astonishment. 

"  That  mass,"  he  continued,  "  in  celebration  of  a  local 
miracle  (respectable  from  its  antiquity),  has  haunted  me 
ever  since.  The  gloomy  splendor  of  the  venerable  cathe 
dral  overwhelmed  me ;  the  happy  faces  that  met  me  on 
every  side,  the  spontaneous  rejoicing  of  the  whole  popula 
tion,  touched  me  deeply.  I  longed  to  make  them  free. 
They  deserve  freedom  ;  they  shall  have  it ! "  A  dark  fire 
glistened  in  his  eye.  "  I  have  been  lost  in  day-dreams  ever 
since ;  I  must  give  them  utterance."  And  he  gazed  stead 
fastly  at  Enrica. — "  I  have  not  left  my  room,  marchesa,  ever 
since  " — at  last  Marescotti  left  Enrica's  side,  and  approached 
the  marchesa — "  until  an  hour  ago,  when  Baldassare  " — and 
the  count  bowed  to  Adonis,  still  seated  sulky  in  a  corner — 
"  came  and  carried  me  off  in  the  hope  that  you  would  per 
mit  me  to  join  your  rubber.  Had  I  known — "  he  added, 
in  a  lower  voice,  bending  his  head  toward  Enrica.  Then 
he  stopped,  suddenly  aware  that  every  one  was  listening  to 
all  he  said  (a  fact  which  he  had  been  far  too  much  absorbed 
to  notice  previously),  colored,  and  retreated  to  the  sofa 
with  the  spindle-legs. 

"  Per  Bacco ! "  whispered  the  cavaliere  to  the  marchesa, 
sitting  near  her  on  the  other  side ;  "  I  am  convinced  poor 
Marescotti  has  never  touched  a  morsel  of  food  since  that 
mass — I  am  certain  of  it.  He  always  lives  upon  a  poetical 
diet,  poor  devil ! — rose-leaves  and  the  beauties  of  Nature, 
with  a  warm  dish  now  and  then  in  the  way  of  a  ragotit  of 
conspiracy.  God  help  him  !  he's  a  greater  lunatic  than 
ever."  This  was  spoken  aside  into  the  marchesa's  ear. 
"  If  you  have  a  soul  of  pity,  marchesa,  order  him  a  chicken 


68  THE   ITALIANS. 

before  we  begin  playing,  or  he  will  faint  upon  the  floor." 
The  marchesa  smiled. 

"  I  don't  like  impressionable  people  at  all,"  she  re 
sponded,  in  the  same  tone  of  voice.  "  In  my  opinion,  feel 
ings  should  be  concealed,  not  exhibited."  And  she  sighed, 
recalling  her  own  silent  vigils  on  the  floor  beneath,  unknown 
to  all  save  the  cavaliere. 

"  But — a  thousand  pardons  !  "  cried  Marescotti,  gradu 
ally  waking  up  to  some  social  energy,  "  I  have  been  talking 
only  of  myself !  Talking  of  myself  in  your  presence,  ladies ! 
— What  can  we  do  to  amuse  your  niece,  marchesa  ?  Lucca 
is  horribly  dull.  If  she  is  to  go  neither  to  festivals  nor  to 
balls,  it  will  not  be  possible  for  her  to  exist  here." 

"  It  will  be  quite  possible,"  answered  the  marchesa, 
greatly  displeased  at  the  turn  the  conversation  was  taking. 
"  Quite  possible,  if  I  choose  it.  Enrica  will  exist  where  I 
please.  You  forget  she  has  lived  here  for  seventeen  years. 
You  see  she  has  not  died  of  it.  She  stays  at  home  by  my 
order,  count." 

Enrica  cast  a  pleading  look  at  her  aunt,  as  if  to  say, 
"  Can  I  help  all  this  ?  "  As  for  Count  Marescotti,  he  was 
far  too  much  engrossed  with  his  own  thoughts  to  be  aware 
that  he  was  treading  on  delicate  ground. 

;i  But,  marchesa,"  he  urged,  "  you  can't  really  keep  your 
niece  any  longer  shut  up  like  the  fairy  princess  in  the  tower. 
Let  me  be  permitted  to  act  the  part  of  the  fairy  prince  and 
liberate  her." 

Again  he  had  turned,  and  again  his  glowing  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  Enrica,  who  had  withdrawn  as  much  as  pos 
sible  behind  the  curtains.  Her  cheeks  were  dyed  with 
blushes.  She  shrank  from  the  count's  too  ardent  glances, 
as  though  those  glances  were  an  involuntary  treason  to 
Nobili. 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  muttered  the  count,  medi 
tating. 


COUNT  MARESCOTTI.  69 

"  Will  you  trust  your  niece  with  Cavaliere  Trenta,  and 
permit  me  to  accompany  them  on  some  little  excursion  in 
the  city,  to  make  up  for  the  loss  of  the  cathedral  and  the 
ball  ?  " 

The  marchesa,  who  found  the  count  decidedly  trouble 
some,  not  to  say  impertinent,  had  opened  her  lips  to  give 
an  unqualified  negative,  but  another  glance  from  Trenta 
checked  her. 

"  An  excellent  idea,"  put  in  the  cavaliere,  before  she 
could  speak.  "  With  me,  marchesa — with  me"  he  added, 
looking  at  her  deprecatingly. 

Trenta  loved  Enrica  better  than  any  thing  in  the  world, 
but  carefully  concealed  it,  the  better  to  serve  her  with  her 
aunt. 

"  As  for  me,  I  am  ready  for  any  thing."  And,  to  show 
his  agility,  he  rose,  and,  with  the  help  of  his  stick,  made  a 
glissade  on  the  floor. 

Baldassare  laughed  out  loud  from  the  corner.  It  grati 
fied  his  wounded  vanity  to  see  his  elder  ridiculous. 

Marescotti,  greatly  alarmed,  started  forward  and  offered 
his  arm,  in  order  to  lead  the  cavaliere  back  to  his  seat,  but 
Trenta  indignantly  refused  his  assistance.  The  marchesa 
shook  her  head. 

"  Calm  yourself,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  compassion 
ately.  "  Calm  yourself,  Cesarino,  I  should  not  like  you  to 
have  a  fit  in  my  house." 

"  Fit !— che  che  ?  "  cried  Trenta,  angrily.  "  Not  while  I 
am  in  the  presence  of  the  young  and  fair,"  he  added,  re 
covering  himself.  "  It  is  that  which  has  kept  me  alive  all 
this  time.  No,  marchesa,  I  refuse  to  sit  down  again.  I  re 
fuse  to  sit  down,  or  to  take  a  hand  at  your  rubber,  until 
something  is  settled." 

This  was  addressed  to  the  marchesa,  who  had  caught 
him  by  the  tails  of  his  immaculate  blue  coat  and  forced 
him  into  a  seat  beside  her. 


70  THE   ITALIANS 

"  Vive  la  bagatelle  !  Where  shall  we  go  ?  You  can 
not  refuse  the  count,"  he  added,  giving  the  marchesa  a 
meaning  look.  "  What  shall  we  do  ?  Let  us  all  propose 
something.  Let  me  see.  I  propose  to  improve  Enrica's 
mind.  She  is  young — the  young  have  need  of  improve 
ment.  I  propose  to  take  her  to  the  church  of  San  Frediano 
and  to  show  her  the  ancient  fresco  representing  the  dis 
covery  of  the  Holy  Countenance ;  also  the  Trenta  chapel, 
containing  the  tombs  of  my  family.  I  will  try  to  explain 
to  her  their  names  and  history. — What  do  you  say  to  this, 
my  child  ?  " 

And  the  cavaliere  turned  to  Enrica,  who,  little  ac 
customed  to  be  noticed  at  all,  much  less  to  occupy  the 
whole  conversation,  looked  supplicatingly  at  her  aunt. 
She  would  gladly  have  run  out  of  the  room  if  she  had 
dared. 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  the  irrepressible  Baldassare,  from 
the  corner.  "  Never  !  What  a  ghastly  idea  !  Tombs 
and  a  mouldy  old  church !  You  may  find  satisfaction, 
Signore  Trenta,  in  the  contemplation  of  your  tomb,  but  the 
signorina  is  not  eighty,  nor  am  I,  nor  is  the  count.  I  pro 
pose  that  after  being  shut  up  so  many  years  the  Guinigi 
Palace  be  thrown  open,  and  a  ball  given  on  the  first  floor 
in  honor  of  the  signorina.  There  should  be  a  band  from 
Florence  and  presents  from  Paris  for  the  cotillon.  What 
do  you  say  to  that,  Signora  Marchesa  ? "  asked  the  mis 
guided  young  man,  with  unconscious  self-satisfaction. 

If  a  mine  had  sprung  under  the  marchesa's  feet,  she 
could  not  have  been  more  horrified.  What  she  would  have 
said  to  Baldassare  is  difficult  to  guess,  but  fortunately  for 
him,  while  she  was  struggling  for  words  in  which  she  could 
suitably  express  her  sense  of  his  presumption,  Trenta,  see 
ing  what  was  coming,  was  beforehand. 

"  Be  silent,  Baldassare,"  he  exclaimed,  "  or,  per  Dio,  I 
will  never  bring  you  here  again." 


COUNT  MARESCOTTI.  71 

Before  Baldassare  could  offer  his  apologies,  the  count 
burst  in — 

"  I  propose  that  we  shall  show  the  signorina  something 
that  will  amuse  her."  He  thought  for  a  moment.  "  Have 
you  ever  ascended  the  old  tower  of  this  palace  ?  "  he  asked. 

Enrica  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  I  propose  the  Guinigi  Tower — the  stairs  are 
rather  rickety,  but  they  are  not  unsafe.  I  was  there  the 
last  time  I  visited  Lucca.  The  view  over  the  Apennines 
is  superb.  Will  you  trust  yourself  to  us,  signorina  ?  " 

Enrica  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  hesitatingly, 
glanced  at  her  aunt,  then  looked  at  him  again.  Until  the 
marchesa  had  spoken  she  dared  not  reply.  She  longed  to 
go.  If  she  ascended  the  tower,  might  she  not  see  Nobili  ? 
She  had  not  set  her  eyes  on  him  for  a  whole  week. 

Marescotti  saw  her  hesitation,  but  he  misunderstood 
the  cause.  He  returned  her  look  with  an  ardent  glance. 
Where  was  the  young  Madonna  leading  him  ?  He  did  not 
stop  to  inquire,  but  surrendered  himself  to  the  enchantment 
of  her  presence. 

"  Is  my  proposal  accepted  ?  "  Count  Marescotti  inquired, 
anxiouslj'  turning  toward  the  marchesa,  who  sat  listening 
to  them  with  a  deeply-offended  air. 

"  And  mine  too  ?  "  put  in  the  cavaliere.  "  Both  can  be 
combined.  I  should  so  much  like  to  show  Enrica  the  tombs 
of  the  Trenta.  We  have  been  a  famous  family  in  our  time. 
Do  not  refuse  us,  marchesa." 

All  this  was  entirely  out  of  the  habits  of  Casa  Guinigi. 
Hitherto  Enrica  had  been  kept  in  absolute  subjection.  If 
she  were  present  no  one  spoke  to  her,  or  noticed  her.  Now 
all  this  was  to  be  changed,  because  Count  Marescotti  had 
come  up  from  Rome.  Enrica  was  not  only  to  be  gazed  at 
and  flattered,  but  to  engross  attention. 

The  marchesa  showed  evident  tokens  of  serious  dis 
pleasure.  Had  Count  Marescotti  not  been  present,  she 


72  THE  ITALIANS. 

would  assuredly  have  expressed  this  displeasure  in  very 
strong  language.  In  all  matters  connected  with  her  niece, 
with  her  household,  and  with  the  management  of  her  own 
affairs,  she  could  not  tolerate  remark,  much  less  interfer 
ence.  Every  kind  of  interference  was  offensive  to  her. 
She  believed  in  herself,  as  I  have  said,  blindly :  never,  up 
to  that  time,  had  that  belief  been  shaken.  All  this  discus 
sion  was,  to  her  mind,  worse  than  interference — it  was  ab 
solute  revolution.  She  inwardly  resolved  to  shut  up  her 
house  and  go  into  the  country,  rather  than  submit  to  it. 
She  eyed  the  count,  who  stood  waiting  for  an  answer,  as 
if  he  were  an  enemy,  and  scowled  at  the  excellent  Trenta. 

Enrica,  too,  had  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  beseechingly; 
Enrica  evidently  wanted  to  go.  The  march esa  had  already 
opened  her  lips  to  give  an  abrupt  refusal,  when  she  felt 
a  warning  hand  laid  upon  her  arm.  Again  she  was  shaken 
in  her  purpose  of  refusal.  She ,  rose,  and  approached  the 
card-table. 

"  I  shall  take  time  to  consider,"  she  replied  to  the  in 
quiring  eyes  awaiting  her  reply. 

The  marchesa  took  up  the  pack  of  cards  and  examined 
the  markers.  She  was  debating  with  herself  what  Trenta 
could  possibly  mean  by  his  extraordinary  conduct,  twice 
repeated. 

"  You  had  better  retire  now,"  she  said  to  Enrica,  with 
an  expression  of  hostility  her  niece  knew  too  well.  "  You 
have  listened  to  quite  enough  folly  for  one  night.  Men 
are  flatterers." 

"  Not  I !  not  I !  "  cried  Marescotti.  "  I  never  say  any 
thing  but  what  I  mean." 

And  he  flew  toward  the  door  in  order  to  open  it  before 
Enrica  could  reach  it. 

"  All  good  angels  guard  you ! "  he  whispered,  with  a 
tender  voice,  into  her  ear,  as,  greatly  confused,  she  passed 
by  him,  into  the  anteroom.  "  May  you  find  all  men  as 


COUNT  MARESCOTTI.  73 

true  as  I !  Per  Dio  !  she  is  the  living  image  of  the  young 
Madonna ! "  he  added,  half  aloud,  gazing.after  her.  "  Coun 
tenance,  manner,  air — it  is  perfect !  " 

A  match  was  now  produced  out  of  Trenta's  pocket. 
The  candles  were  lighted,  and  the  casements  closed.  The 
party  then  sat  down  to  whist. 

The  marchesa  was  always  specially  irritable  when  at 
cards.  The  previous  conversation  had  not  improved  her 
temper.  Moreover,  the  count  was  her  partner,  and  a  worse 
one  could  hardly  be  conceived.  Twice  he  did  not  even 
take  up  the  cards  dealt  to  him,  but  sat  immovable,  staring 
at  the  print  of  the  Empress  Eugenie  in  the  Spanish  dress 
on  the  green  wall  opposite.  Called  to  order  peremptorily 
by  the  marchesa,  he  took  up  his  cards,  shuffled  them,  then 
laid  them  down  again  on  the  table,  his  eyes  wandering  off 
to  the  chair  hitherto  occupied  by  Enrica. 

This  was  intolerable.  The  marchesa  showed  him  that 
she  thought  so.  He  apologized.  He  did  take  up  his  cards, 
and  for  a  few  deals  attended  to  the  game.  Again  becom 
ing  abstracted,  he  forgot  what  were  trumps,  losing  thereby 
several  tricks.  Finally,  he  revoked.  Both  the  marchesa 
and  the  cavaliere  rebuked  him  very  sharply.  Again  he 
apologized,  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts,  but  still  played 
abominably. 

Meanwhile,  Trenta  and  Baldassare  kept  up  a  perpetual 
wrangle.  The  cavaliere  was  cool,  sardonic,  smiling,  and 
provoking — Baldassare  hot  and  flushed  with  a  concentra 
tion  of  rage  he  dared  not  express.  The  cavaliere,  thanks 
to  his  court  education,  was  an  admirable  whist-player. 
His  frequent  observations  to  his  young  friend  were  excel 
lent  as  instruction,  but  were  conveyed  in  somewhat  con 
temptuous  language.  Baldassare,  having  been  told  by  the 
cavaliere  that  playing  a  good  hand  at  whist  was  as  neces 
sary  to  his  future  social  success  as  dancing,  was  much  cha 
grined. 

4 


74  THE   ITALIANS. 

Poor  Baldassare  ! — his  life  was  a  continual  conflict — a 
sacrifice  to  bis  love  of  fine  company.  It  might  be  doubted 
if  he  would  not  have  been  infinitely  happier  in  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  paternal  establishment,  weighing  out  drugs, 
in  shabby  clothes,  behind  the  counter,  than  he  was  now, 
snubbed  and  affronted,  and  barely  tolerated. 

After  this  the  marchesa  and  Trenta  became  partners ; 
but  matters  did  not  improve.  A  violent  altercation  ensued 
as  to  who  led  a  certain  crucial  card,  which  decided  the 
game.  Once  seated  at  the  whist-table,  the  cavaliere  was 
a  real  autocrat.  There  he  did  not  affect  even  to  submit  to 
the  marchesa.  Now,  provoked  beyond  endurance,  he 
plainly  told  her  "  she  never  had  played  a  good  game,  and, 
what  was  more,  that  she  never  would — she  was  too  impet 
uous."  Upon  hearing  this  the  marchesa  threw  down  her 
cards  in  a  rage,  and  rose  from  the  table.  Trenta  rose  also. 
With  an  imperturbable  countenance  he  offered  her  his  arm, 
to  lead  her  back  to  her  seat. 

The  marchesa,  extremely  irate  at  what  he  had  said, 
pushed  him  rudely  to  one  side  and  reseated  herself. 

Baldassare  and  Marescotti  rose  also.  The  count,  hav 
ing  continued  persistently  absent  up  to  the  last,  was  utter 
ly  unconscious  of  the  little  fracas  that  had  taken  place  be 
tween  .  the  marchesa  and  the  cavaliere,  and  the  consequent 
sudden  conclusion  of  the  game.  He  had  seen  her  rise,  and 
it  was  a  great  relief  to  him.  He  had  been  debating  in  his 
own  mind  whether  he  should  adopt  the  Dante  rhyme  for 
his  ode  to  the  young  Madonna,  or  make  it  in  strophes. 
He  inclined  to  the  latter  treatment  as  more  picturesque, 
and  therefore  more  suitable  to  the  subject. 

"  May  I,"  said  he,  suddenly  roused  to  what  was  passing 
about  him,  and  advancing  with  a  gracious  smile  upon  his 
mobile  face,  lit  up  by  the  pleasant  musings  of  the  whist- 
table — pleasant  to  him,  but  assuredly  not  pleasant  to  his 


COUNT   MARESCOTTI.  75 

partner — "may  I  hope,  marchesa,  that  you  will  acquiesce 
in  our  little  plan  for  to-morrow  ?  " 

The  marchesa  had  come  by  this  time  to  look  on  the 
count  as  a  bore,  of  whom  she  was  anxious  to  rid  herself. 
She  was  so  anxious,  indeed,  to  rid  herself  of  him  that  she 
actually  assented. 

"  My  niece,  Signore  Conte,"  she  said,  stiffly,  "  shall  be 
ready  with  her  gouvernante  and  the  Cavaliere  Trenta,  at 
eleven  o'clock  to-morrow.  Now — good-night !  " 

Marescotti  took  the  hint,  bowed,  and  departed  arm-in 
arm  with  Baldassare. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    CABINET   COUNCIL. 

WHEN  the  count  and  Baldassare  had  left  the  room, 
Cavaliere  Trenta  made  no  motion  to  follow  them.  On  the 
contrary,  he  leaned  back  in  the  chair  on  which  he  was 
seated,  and  nursed  his  leg  with  the  nankeen  trouser  medi 
tatively.  The  expression  of  his  face  showed  that  his 
thoughts  were  busy  with  some  project  he  desired  to  com 
municate.  Until  he  had  done  so  in  his  own  way,  and  at 
his  own  time,  he  would  continue  to  sit  where  he  was.  It 
was  this  imperturbable  self-possession  and  good-humor  com 
bined  which  gave  him  so  much  influence  over  the  irascible 
marchesa.  They  were  as  iron  to*fire,  only  the  iron  was 
never  heated. 

The  marchesa,  deeply  resenting  his  remarks  upon  her 
whist-playing,  tapped  her  foot  impatiently  on  the  floor, 
fanned  herself,  and  glowered  at  him  out  of  the  darkness 
which  the  single  pair  of  candles  did  not  dispel.  As  he  still 
made  no  motion  to  go,  she  took  out  her  watch,  looked  at 
it,  and,  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  rose.  Quite  use 
less.  Trenta  did  not  stir. 

"  Marchesa,"  he  said  at  last,  abruptly,  raising  his  head 
and  looking  at  her,  "  do  me  the  favor  to  sit  down.  Spare 
me  a  few  moments  before  you  retire." 

"  I  want  to  go  to  bed,"  she  answered,  rudely.  "  It  is 
already  past  my  usual  hour." 


THE  CABINET  COUNCIL.  77 

"  Marchesa — one  moment.  I  permitted  myself  the  lib 
erty  of  an  old  friend  just  now — to  check  your  speech  to 
Count  Marescotti." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  drawing  up  her  long  throat,  and  throw 
ing  back  her  head,  an  action  habitual  to  her  when  dis 
pleased,  "  you  did  so.  I  did  not  understand  it.  We  have 
been  acquainted  quite  long  enough  for  you  to  know  I  do 
not  like  interference." 

"Pardon  me,  noble  lady" — (Trenta  spoke  very  meekly 
— to  soothe  her  now  was  absolutely  necessary) — "  pardon 
me,  for  the  sake  of  my  good  intentions." 

"  And  pray  what  were  your  good  intentions,  cavaliere  ?  " 
she  asked,  in  a  mocking  tone,  reseating  herself.  Her  curi 
osity  was  rapidly  getting  the  better  of  her  resentment. 

As  she  asked  the  question,  the  cavaliere  left  off  nurs 
ing  his  leg  with  the  nankefcn  trouser,  rose,  drew  his  chair 
closer  to  hers,  then  sat  down  again.  The  light  from  the 
single  pair  of  candles  was  very  dim,  and  scarcely  extended 
beyond  the  card-table.  Both  their  heads  were  therefore  in 
shadow,  but  the  marchesa's  eyes  gleamed  nevertheless,  as 
she  waited  for  Trenta's  explanation. 

"Did  you  observe  nothing  this  evening,  my  friend?" 
he  asked — "nothing  ?  "  His  manner  was  unusually  ex 
cited 

"No,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully.  She  had  been  so 
exclusively  occupied  with  the  slights  put  upon  herself  that 
..every  thing  else  had  escaped  her.  "  I  observed  nothing 
except  the  impertinence  of  Count  Marescotti,  and  the  au 
dacity—the—" 

"  Stop,  marchesa,"  interrupted  Trenta,  holding  up  his 
hand.  "  We  will  talk  of  all  that  another  time.  If  Count 
Marescotti  and  Baldassare  have  offended  you,  you  can  de 
cline  to  receive  them.  You  observed  nothing,  you  say  ?  I 
did."  He  leaned  forward,  and  spoke  with  emphasis  — "  Ma 
rescotti  is  in  love  with  Enrica." 


78  THE   ITALIANS. 

The  marchesa  started  violently  and  raised  herself  bolt 
upright. 

"  The  Red  count  in  love  with  a  child  like  Enrica  ! " 

"  Only  a  child  in  your  eyes,  Signora  Marchesa,"  rejoined 
Trenta,  warmly.  (He  had  warmed  with  his  own  convic 
tions,  his  benevolent  heart  was  deeply  interested  in  Enrica. 
He  had  known  her  since  she  had  first  come  to  Casa 
Guinigi,  a  bab}r ;  from  his  soul  he  pitied  her.)  "  In  the 
eyes  of  the  world  Enrica  is  not  only  a  woman,  but  prom 
ises  to  be  a  very  lovely  one.  She  is  seventeen  years  old, 
and  marriageable.  Young  ladies  of  her  name  and  position 
must  have  fortunes,  or  they  do  not  marry  well.  If  they  do, 
it  is  a  chance — quite  a  chance.  Under  these  circumstances, 
it  would  be  cruel  to  deprive  her  of  so  suitable  an  alliance 
as  Count  Marescotti.  Now,  allow  me  to  ask  you,  seriously, 
how  would  this  marriage  suit  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  marchesa,  curtly.  "  The 
count  is  a  republican.  I  hate  republicans.  The  Guinigi 
have  always  been  Ghibelline,  and  loyal.  I  dislike  him, 
too,  personally.  I  was  about  to  desire  you  never  to  bring 
him  here  again.  Contact  with  low  people  has  spoiled  him. 
His  manners  are  detestable." 

"  But,  marchesa,  che  vuole  ? "  Trenta  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "  He  belongs  to  one  of  the  oldest  families  in 
Rome ;  he  is  well  off,  handsome  (he  reminds  me  of  your 
ancestor,  Castruccio  Castracani) ;  a  wife  might  improve 
him."  The  marchesa  shook  her  head. 

"  He  like  the  great  Castruccio ! — I  do  not  see  it." 

"  Permit  me,"  resumed  Trenta,  "  without  entering  into 
details  which,  as  a  friend,  you  have  confided  to  me,  I  must 
remind  you  that  your  affairs  are  seriously  embarrassed." 

The  marchesa  winced ;  she  guessed  what  was  coming. 
She  knew  that  she  could  not  deny  it. 

"  You  are  embarrassed  by  lawsuits.  Unfortunately,  all 
have  gone  against  you." 


THE   CABINET   COUNCIL.  79 

"  I  fought  for  the  ancient  privileges  of  the  Guinigi ! " 
burst  out  the  marchesa,  imperiously.  "I  would  do  it 
again." 

"  I  do  not  in  the  least  doubt  you  would  do  it  again, 
exalted  lady,"  responded  Trenta,  with  a  quiet  smile.  "  In 
deed,  I  feel  assured  of  it.  I  merely  state  the  fact.  You 
have  sacrificed  large  sums  of  money.  You  have  lost  every 
suit.  The  costs  have  been  enormous.  Your  income  is 
greatly  reduced.  Enrica  is  therefore  portionless." 

"  No,  no,  not  altogether."  The  marchesa  moved  ner 
vously  in  her  chair,  carefully  avoiding  meeting  Trenta's 
steely  blue  eyes.  "  1  have  saved  money,  Cesarino — I  have 
indeed,"  she  repeated.  The  marchesa  was  becoming  quite 
affable.  "  I  cannot  touch  the  heirlooms.  But  Enrica  will 
have  a  small  portion." 

"  Well,  well,"  replied  Trenta.  "  But  it  is  impossible 
you  can  have  saved  much  since  the  termination  of  that  last 
long  suit  with  the  chapter  about  your  right  to  the  second 
bench  in  the  nave  of  the  cathedral,  the  bench  awarded  to 
Count  Nobili  when  he  bought  the  palace.  The  expense 
was  too  great,  and  the  trial  too  recent." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"  Then  there  was  that  other  affair  with  the  municipality 
about  the  right  of  flying  the  flag  from  the  Guinigi  Tower. 
I  do  not  mention  small  affairs,  such  as  disputes  with  your 
late  steward  at  Corellia,  trials  at  Barga,  nor  litigation  here 
at  Lucca  on  a  small  scale.  My  dear  marchesa,  you  have 
found  the  law  an  expensive  pastime."  The  cavaliere's 
round  eyes  twinkled  as  he  said  this.  "  Enrica  is  therefore 
virtually  portionless.  The  choice  lies  between  a  husband 
who  will  wed  her  for  herself,  or  a  convent.  If  I  under 
stand  your  views,  a  convent  would  not  suit  you.  Besides, 
you  would  not  surely  voluntarily  condemn  a  girl,  without 
vocation,  and  brought  up  beside  you,  to  the  seclusion  of  a 
convent  ?  " 


80  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  But  Enrica  is  a  child — I  tell  you  she  is  too  young  to 
think  about  marriage,  cavaliere." 

The  marchesa  spoke  with  anger.  She  would  stave  off 
as  long  as  possible  the  principal  question — that  of  mar 
riage.  Sudden  proposals,  too,  emanating  from  others,  al 
ways  nettled  her ;  it  narrowed  her  prerogative. 

"Besides,"  objected  the  marchesa,  still  fencing  with 
the  real  question,  "  who  can  answer  for  Count  Marescotti  ? 
He  is  so  capricious  !  Supposing  he  likes  Enrica  to-day,  he 
may  change  before  to-morrow.  Do  you  really  think  he  can 
care  enough  about  Enrica  to  marry  her  ?  Her  name  would 
be  nothing  to  him." 

"  I  think  he  does  care  for  her,"  replied  Trenta,  reflec 
tively  ;  "  but  that  can  be  ascertained.  Enrica  is  a  fit  con 
sort  for  a  far  greater  man  than  Count  Marescotti.  Not 
that  he,  as  you  say,  would  care  about  her  name.  Remem 
ber,  she  will  be  your  heiress — that  is  something." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  heiress,"  answered  the  marchesa,  vague 
ly  ;  for  the  dreadful  question  rose  up  in  her  mind,  "  What 
would  Enrica  have  to  inherit  ?  " 

That  very  day  she  had  received  a  most  insolent  letter 
from  a  creditor.  Under  the  influence  of  the  painful 
thoughts,  she  turned  her  head  aside  and  said  nothing. 
One  of  her  hands  was  raised  over  her  eyes  to  shade  them 
from  the  candles ;  the  other  rested  on  her  dark  dress. 

If  a  marriage  were  really  in  question,  what  could  be 
more  serious?  Was  not  Enrica's  marriage  to  raise  up 
heirs  to  the  Guinigi — heirs  to  inherit  the  palace  and  the 
heirlooms  ?  If — the  marchesa  banished  the  thought,  but  it 
would  return,  and  haunt  her  like  a  spectre — if  not  the  pal 
ace,  then  at  least  the  name — the  historic  name,  revered 
throughout  Italy  ?  Nothing  could  deprive  Enrica  of  the 
name — that  name  was  in  itself  a  dower.  That  Enrica 
should  possess  both  name  and  palace,  with  a  husband  of 
her — the  marchesa's — own  choosing,  had  been  her  dream, 


THE  CABINET  COUNCIL.  81 

but  it  had  been  a  far-off  dream — a  dream  to  be  realized  in 
the  course  of  years. 

Taken  thus  aback,  the  proposal  made  by  Trenta  ap 
peared  to  her  hurried  and  premature — totally  wanting  in  the 
dignified  and  well-considered  action  that  should  mark  the 
conduct  of  the  great.  Besides,  if  an  immediate  marriage 
were  arranged  between  Count  Marescotti  and  Enrica,  only 
a  part  of  her  plan  could  be  realized.  Enrica  was,  indeed, 
now  almost  portionless ;  there  would  be  no  time  to  pile  up 
those  gold-pieces,  or  to  swell  those  rustling  sheaves  of 
notes  that  she  had — in  imagination — accumulated. 

"  Portionless ! "  the  marchesa  repeated  to  herself,  half 
aloud.  "  What  a  humiliation  ! — my  own  niece ! " 

It  will  be  observed  that  all  this  time  the  marchesa  had 
never  considered  what  Enrica's  feeling  might  be.  She  was 
to  obey  her — that  was  all. 

But  in  this  the  marchesa  was  not  to  blame.  She  un 
doubtedly  carried  her  idea  of  Enrica's  subserviency  too 
far  ;  but  custom  was  on  her  side.  Marriages  among  per 
sons  of  high  rank  are  "  arranged  "  in  Italy — arranged  by 
families  or  _by  priests,  acting  as  go-betweens.  The  lady 
leaves  the  convent,  and  her  marriage  is  arranged.  She  is 
unconscious  that  she  has  a  heart — she  only  discovers  that 
unruly  member  afterward.  To  love  a  husband  is  unneces 
sary  ;  there  are  so  many  "  golden  youths  "  to  choose  from. 
And  the  husband  has  his  pastime  too.  Cosi  fan  tutti !  It 
is  a  round  game  ! 

All  this  time  the  cavaliere  had  never  taken  his  eyes  off 
his  friend.  To  a  certain  extent  he  understood  what  was 
passing  in  her  mind.  A  portionless  niece  would  reveal  her 
poverty. 

"  A  good  marriage  is  a  good  thing,"  he  suggested,  as 
a  safe  general  remark,  after  having  waited  in  vain  for  some 
response. 

"  In  all  I  do,"  the  marchesa  answered,  loftily,  "  I  must 


82  THE  ITALIANS. 

first  consider  what  is  due  to  the  dignity  of  my  position." 
Trenta  bowed. 

"  Decidedly,  marchesa ;  that  is  your  duty.  But  what 
then?" 

"No  feeling  whatever  but  that  will  influence  me  now, 
or  hereafter — nothing."  She  dwelt  upon  the  last  word  de 
fiantly,  as  the  final  expression  of  her  mind.  Spite  of  this 
defiance,  there  was,  however,  a  certain  hesitation  in  her 
manner  which  did  not  escape  the  cavaliere.  As  she  spoke, 
she  looked  hard  at  him,  and  touched  his  arm  to  arouse  his 
attention. 

Trenta,  who  knew  her  so  well,  perfectly  interpreted  her 
meaning.  His  ruddy  cheeks  flushed  crimson ;  his  kindly 
eyes  kindled;  he  felt  sure  that  his  advice  would  be  accept 
ed.  She  was  yielding,  but  he  must  be  most  cautious  not 
to  let  his  satisfaction  appear.  So  strangely  contradictory 
was  the  marchesa  that,  although  nothing  could  possibly  be 
more  advantageous  to  her  own  schemes  than  this  marriage, 
she  might,  if  indiscreetly  pressed,  veer  round,  and,  in  spite 
of  her  interest,  refuse  to  listen  to  another  syllable  on  the 
subject. 

All  this  kept  the  cavaliere  silent.  Receiving  no  an 
swer,  she  looked  suspiciously  at  him,  then  grasped  his  arm 
tightly. 

"  And  you,  cavaliere — how  long  have  you  been  so  deep 
ly  interested  in  Enrica  ?  What  is  she  to  you  ?  Her  future 
can  only  signify  to  you  as  far  as  it  affects  myself." 

She  waited  for  a  reply.  What  was  the  cavaliere  to 
answer  ?  He  loved  Enrica  dearly,  but  he  dared  not  say  so, 
lest  he  should  offend  the  marchesa.  He  feared  that  if  he 
spoke  he  should  assuredly  say  too  much.  Well  as  he  knew 
her,  the  marchesa's  egotism  horrified  him. 

"  Poor  Enrica !  "  he  muttered,  involuntarily,  half  aloud. 

The  marchesa  caught  at  the  name. 

"  Enrica  ? — yes.     From  the  time  of  my  husband's  death 


THE   CABINET   COUNCIL.  83 

I  have  sacrificed  my  life  to  the  duties  imposed  on  me  by 
my  position.  So  must  Enrica.  No  personal  feeling  for 
her  shall  bias  me  in  the  least." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  those  of  Trenta.  She  paused 
again,  and  passed  her  white  hand  slowly  one  over  the  other. 
The  cavaliere  looked  down ;  he  durst  not  meet  her  glance, 
lest  she  should  read  his  thoughts.  Thinking  of  Enrica  at 
that  moment,  he  absolutely  hated  her ! 

"  What  would  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  "  she  asked,  at 
last.  Her  voice  fell  as  she  put  the  question. 

Trenta  had  been  waiting  for  this  direct  appeal.  Now 
his  tongue  was  unloosed. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Signora  Marchesa,  plainly  what  I 
would  advise  you  to  do,"  was  his  answer.  "  Let  Enrica 
marry  Marescotti.  Put  the  whole  matter  into  my  hands, 
if  you  have  sufficient  confidence  in  me." 

"  Remember,  Trenta,  the  humiliation  !  " 

"  What  humiliation  ? "  asked  the  cavaliere,  with  sur 
prise. 

"  The  humiliation  involved  in  the  confession  that  my 
niece  is  almost  portionless."  The  words  seemed  to  choke 
her.  "  She  will  inherit  all  I  have  to  leave,  and  she  glanced 
significantly  at  the  cavaliere ;  "  but  that  is — you  understand 
me  ? — uncertain." 

"  Bagatella  ! — that  will  be  all  right,"  he  rejoined,  with 
alacrity.  "  The  idea  of  money  will  not  sway  Marescotti  in 
the  least.  He  is  wealthy — a  fine  fellow.  Have  no  fear  of 
that.  Leave  it  all  to  me,  Enrica,  and  Marescotti.  I  am  an 
old  courtier.  Many  a  royal  marriage  has  passed  through 
my  hands.  Per  Bacco — though  no  one  but  the  duke  knew 
it — through  my  hands  !  You  may  trust  me,  inarchesa." 

There  was  a  proud  consciousness  of  the  past  in  the  old 
man's  face.  He  showed  such  perfect  confidence  in  himself 
that  he  imparted  the  same  confidence  to  the  marchesa. 

"  I  would  trust  no  one  else,  Cesarino,"  she  said,  rising 


84  THE  ITALIANS. 

from  her  chair.  "  But  be  cautious ;  bind  me  to  nothing 
until  we  meet  again.  I  must  hear  all  that  passes  between 
you  and  the  count,  then  judge  for  myself." 

"I  will  obey  you  in  all  things,  noble  lady,"  replied 
Trenta,  submissively. 

Plow  he  dreaded  betraying  his  secret  exultation  1  To 
emancipate  Enrica  from  her  miserable  life  by  an  honorable 
marriage,  was,  to  his  benevolent  heart,  infinite  happiness ! 

"  Good-night,  marchesa.     May  you  repose  well !  " 

"  Good-night,  Cesarino — a  rivederci ! " 

So  they  parted. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    COUNTESS   OKSETTl's   BALL. 


THE  ball  at  Casa  Orsetti  was  much  canvassed  in  Lucca. 
Hospitality  is  by  no  means  a  cardinal  virtue  in  Italy. 
Even  in  the  greatest  houses,  the  bread  and  salt  of  the 
Arab  is  not  offered  to  you — or,  if  offered  at  all,  appears  in 
the  shape  of  such  dangerously  acid  lemonade  or  such  weak 
tea,  it  is  best  avoided.  Every  year  there  are  dances  at  the 
Casino  dei  Nobili,  during  the  Carnival,  and  there  are 
veglioni,  or  balls,  at  the  theatre,  where  ladies  go  masked 
and  in  dominoes,  but  do  not  dance ;  but  these  annual  dissi 
pations  are  paid  for  by  ticket.  A  general  reception,  there 
fore,  including  dancing,  supper,  and  champagne,  gratis, 
was  an  event. 

The  Orsetti  Palace,  a  huge  square  edifice  of  reddish- 
gray  stone,  with  overtopping  roof,  four  tiers  of  lofty  win 
dows,  and  a  broad  arched  entrance,  or  portone,  with  dark- 
green  doors,  stands  in  the  street  of  San  Michele.  You  pass 
it,  going  from  the  railway-station  to  the  city-gate  (where 
the  Lucchese  lions  keep  guard),  and  the  road  leads  onward 
to  the  peaked  mountains  over  Spezia. 

On  the  evening  of  the  ball  the  entire  street  of  San 
Michele  was  hung  with  Chinese  lanterns,  arranged  in  fes 
toons.  Opposite  the  entrance  shone  a  gigantic  star  of  gas. 
The  palace  itself  was  a  blaze  of  light.  As  the  night  was 


86  THE  ITALIANS. 

warm,  every  window  was  thrown  open  ;  chandeliers — scin 
tillating  like  jeweled  fountains — hung  from  the  ceilings ; 
wax-lights  innumerable,  in  gilded  sconces,  were  grouped 
upon  the  walls ;  crimson-silk  curtains  cast  a  ruddy  glare 
across  the  street,  and  the  sound  of  harps  and  violins  floated 
through  the  night  air.  The  crowd  of  beggars  and  idlers, 
generally  gathered  in  the  street,  saw  so  much  that  they 
might  be  considered  to  "  assist,"  in  an  independent  but  fes 
tive  capacity,  at  the  entertainment  from  outside.  Matches 
were  hawked  about  for  the  convenience  of  the  male  portion 
of  this  extempore  assembly,  and  fruit  in  baskets  was  on 
sale  for  the  women.  "  Cigars  —  cigars  of  quality  !  " — 
"  Good  fruit — ripe  fruit !  "  were  cries  audible  even  in  the 
ballroom  ;  and  a  fine  aroma  of  coarse  tobacco  mounted  rap 
idly  upward  to  the  illuminated  windows. 

Within  the  archway  groups  of  servants  were  ranged  in 
the  Orsetti  livery.  Also  a  magnificent  personage,  not  to 
be  classed  with  any  of  the  other  domestics,  wearing  a  silver 
chain  with  a  key  passed  across  his  breast.  The  personage 
called  a  major-domo,  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  divested 
the  ladies  of  their  shawls,  and  arranged  their  draperies. 

All  this  was  witnessed  with  much  glee  by  the  plebs 
outside — the  men  smoking,  the  women  eating  and  talking. 
As  the  guests  arrived  in  rapid  succession,  the  plebs  pressed 
more  and  more  forward,  until  at  last  some  of  the  boldest 
stood  within  the  threshold.  The  giants  in  livery  not  only 
tolerated  this,  but  might  be  said  to  observe  them  individu 
ally  with  favor — seeing  how  much  of  their  admiration  was 
bestowed  on  themselves  and  their  fine  clothes.  The  major- 
domo  also,  with  amiable  condescension,  affected  not  to 
notice  them — no,  not  even  when  one  tall  fellow,  a  butcher, 
with  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a 
coarse  cloak  wrapped  round  him,  took  off  his  hat  to  the 
Princess  Cardeneff,  as  she  passed  by  him  glittering  with 
diamonds,  and  cried  in  her  face,  "  Oh  !  bella,  bella  !  " 


THE  COUNTESS  ORSETTI'S  BALL.  87 

When  the  major-domo  had -performed  those  mysteries 
intrusted  to  him,  attendant  giants  threw  open  folding 
doors  at  the  farther  end  of  the  court,  and  the  bright  visions 
disappeared  into  a  long  gallery  on  the  ground-floor,  painted 
in  brilliant  frescoes,  to  the  reception-room.  The  suite  of 
rooms  on  the  ground-floor  are  the  summer  apartments, 
specially  arranged  for  air  and  coolness.  Rustic  chairs  stand 
against  walls  painted  with  fruit  and  flowers,  the  stems  and 
leaves  represented  as  growing  out  of  the  floor,  as  at  Pom 
peii.  The  whole  saloon  is  like  &  parterre.  Settees,  sofas, 
and  cozy  Paris  chairs  covered  with  rich  satins,  are  placed 
under  arbors  of  light-gilt  trellis-work,  wreathed  with  ex 
quisite  creepers  in  full  flower.  Palms,  orange  and  lemon 
trees,  flowering  cacti,  and  large-leaved  cane-plants,  are 
grouped  about ;  consoles  and  marble  tables,  covered  with 
the  loveliest  cut  flowers. 

Near  the  door,  in  the  first  of  these  floral  saloons  where 
sweet  scents  made  the  air  heavy,  stands  the  Countess 
Orsetti.  Although  she  had  certainly  passed  that  great 
female  climacteric,  forty,  a  stately  presence,  white  skin, 
abundant  hair,  and  good  features  treated  artistically,  gave 
her  still  a  certain  claim  to  matronly  beauty.  She  greets 
each  guest  with  compliments  and  phrases  which  would 
have  been  deemed  excessive  out  of  Italy.  Here  in  Lucca, 
where  she  met  most  of  her  guests  every  day,  these  compli 
ments  and  phrases  were  not  only  excessive,  but  wearisome 
and  out  of  place.  Yet  such  is  the  custom  of  the  country, 
and  to  such  fulsome  flattery  do  the  language  and  common 
usage  lend  themselves.  Countess  Orsetti,  therefore,  is  not 
responsible  for  this  absurdity. 

Her  son  is  beside  her.  He  is  short,  stout,  and  smiling, 
with  a  hesitating  manner,  and  a  habit  of  referring  every 
thing  to  his  magnificent  mamma.  Away  from  his  mamma, 
he  is  frank,  talkative,  and  amusing.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
he  will  marry  soon,  and  escape  from  the  leading-strings. 


88  THE   ITALIANS. 

If  he  marries  Teresa  Ottoltni — and  it  is  said  such  a  result 
is  certain — no  palace  in  Lucca  would  be  big  enough  to  hold 
Teresa  and  the  countess-mother  at  one  time. 

Group  after  group  enters,  bows  to  the  countess,  and 
passes  on  among  the  flowers :  the  Countess  Navascoes 
(with  her  lord),  pale,  statuesque,  dark-e}Ted,  raven-haired — 
a  type  of  Italian  womanhood ;  Marchesa  Manzi — born  of 
the  noble  house  of  Buoncampagni — looking  as  if  she  had 
walked  out  of  a  picture  by  Titian ;  the  Da  Gia,  separated 
from  her  husband — a  little  habit,  this,  of  Italian  ladies,  con 
sequent  upon  intimacy  with  the  jeunesse  doree,  who  prefer 
the  wives  of  their  best  friends  to  all  other  women — it  saves 
trouble,  and  a  "  golden  youth "  is  essentially  idle.  This 
little  habit,  moreover,  of  separation  from  husbands  does  not 
damage  the  lady  in  the  least ;  no  one  inquires  what  has 
happened,  or  who  is  in  the  wrong.  Society  receives  and 
pets  her  just  the  same,  and,  quite  impartial,  receives  and 
pets  the  husband  also. — Luisa  Bernardini,  a  glowing  little 
countess,  as  plump  as  an  ortolan,  dimpling  with  smiles,  an 
ugly  old  husband  at  her  side — comes  next.  It  is  whispered, 
unless  the  ugly  old  husband  is  blind  as  well  as  deaf,  they 
will  be  separated,  too,  very  shortly.  Young  Civilla,  a 
"  golden  youth,"  is  so  very  pressing.  He  could  live  with 
Luisa  at  Naples — a  cheap  place.  They  might  have  gone 
on  for  years  as  a  triangular  household — but  for  Civilla's 
carelessness.  Civilla  would  always  put  out  old  Bernardini 
about  the  dinner.  (Civilla  dined  at  Bernardini's  house 
every  day,  as  he  would  at  a  co/&)  Now,  old  Bernardini 
did  not  care  a  button  that  his  little  wife  had  a  lover ;  it 
would  not  have  been  en  rtyle  if  she  had  not — nor  did  he 
care  that  his  wife's  lover  should  dine  with  him  every  day — 
not  a  bit— but  old  Bernardini  is  a  gourmand,  and  he  does 
care  to  be  kept  waiting  for  his  dinner.  He  has  lately  con 
fided  to  a  friend,  that  he  should  be  sorry  to  cause  a  scandal, 
but  that  he  must  separate  from  his  wife  if  Civilla  will  not 


THE  COUNTESS  ORSETTFS  BALL.  89 

reform  in  the  matter  of  the  dinner-hour.  "  He  is  getting 
old,"  Bernardini  says,  "and  his  digestion  suffers."  No 
man  keeps  a  French  cook  to  be  kept  waiting  for  his  dinner. 

Luisa,  who  looks  the  picture  of  innocence,  wears  an  un 
exceptionable  pink  dress,  with  a  train  that  bodes  ill-luck, 
and  many  apologies,  to  her  partners.  A  long  train  is 
Luisa's  little  game.  (Spite  of  Civilla,  she  has  many  other 
little  games.)  Fragments  of  the  train  fly  about  the  room 
all  the  evening,  and  admirers  take  care  that  she  shall  see 
these  picked  up,  fervently  kissed,  and  stowed  away  as  relics 
in  breast-pockets.  One  enthusiast  pinned  his  fragment  to 
his  shoulder,  like  an  order — a  knight  of  San  Luisa,  he  called 
himself. 

Teresa  Ottolini,  with  her  mother,  has  just  arrived.  Be 
ing  single,  Teresa  either  is,  or"  affects  to  be,  excessively 
steady  ;  no  one  would  marry  her  if  she  were  not — not  even 
the  good-natured  Orsetti.  Your  Italian  husband  infuturo 
will  pardon  nothing  in  his  wife  that  may  be — not  even  that 
her  dress  should  be  conspicuous,  much  less  her  manners. 
Neither  is  it  expedient  that  she  should  be  seen  much  in 
society.  That  dangerous  phalanx  of  "  golden  youth  "  are 
ever  on  the  watch,  "  gentlemen  sportsmen,"  to  a  man ; 
their  sport,  woman.  If  she  goes  out  much  these  "  golden 
youth  "  might  compromise  her.  Less  than  a  breath  upon 
a  maiden's  name  is  social  death.  That  name  must  not  1)6 
coupled  with  any  man's — not  coupled  even  in  lightest  par 
lance.  So  the  lady  waits,  waits  until  she  has  a  husband — 
it  is  more  piquant  to  be  a  naughty  wife  than  a  fast  miss — 
then  she  makes  her  choice — one,  or  a  dozen — it  is  a  matter 
of  taste.  Danger  is  added  to  vice ;  and  that  element  of 
intrigue  dear  to  the  Italian  soul,  both  male  and  female. 
The  jeunesse  dorbe  delight  in  mild  danger — a  duel  with 
swords,  not  pistols,  with  a  foolish  husband.  Why  cannot 
he  grin  and  bear  it  ? — others  do. 

But  to  return  to  Teresa.     She  is  courtesying  very  low 


90  THE   ITALIANS. 

to  the  Countess  Orsetti.  Although  it  is  well  known  that 
these  ladies  hate  each  other,  Countess  Orsetti  receives  Te 
resa  with  a  special  welcome,  kisses  her  on  both  cheeks, 
addresses  more  compliments  to  her,  and  makes  her  more 
courtesies  than  to  any  one  else.  How  beautiful  she  is,  the 
Ottolini,  with  those  white  flowers  twisted  into  the  braids 
of  her  chestnut  hair ! — those  large,  lazy  eyes,  too — like 
sleeping  volcanoes ! — Count  Orsetti  thinks  her  beautiful, 
clearly  ;  for,  under  the  full  battery  of  his  mother's  glances, 
he  advances  to  meet  her,  blushing  like  a  girl.  He  presses 
Teresa's  hand,  and  whispers  in  her  ear  that  "she  must  not 
forget  her  promise  about  the  cotillon.  He  has  lived  upon 
it  ever  since."  Her  reply  has  apparently  satisfied  him,  for 
the  honest  fellow  breaks  out  all  over  into  smiles  and  bows 
and  amorous  glances.  Then  she  passes  on,  the  fair  Teresa, 
like  a  queen,  followed  by  looks  of  unmistakable  admiration 
— much  more  unmistakable  looks  of  admiration  than  would 
be  permitted  elsewhere ;  but  we  are  in  Italy,  where  men 
are  born  artists  and  have  artistic  feelings. 

The  men,  as  a  rule,  are  neither  as  distinguished  looking 
nor  as  well  dressed  as  the  women.  The  type  of  the  Luc- 
chese  nobleman  is  dark,  short,  and  commonplace — rustic  is 
the  word. 

There  is  the  usual  crowding  in  doorways,  and  appro 
priation  of  seats  whence  arrivals  can  be  seen  and  criti 
cised.  But  there  is  no  line  of  melancholy  young  girls 
wanting  partners.  The  gentlemen  decidedly  predominate, 
and  all  the  ladies,  except  Teresa  Ottolini  and  the  Boccarini, 
are  married. 

The  Marchesa  Boccarini  had  already  arrived,  accom 
panied  by  her  three  daughters.  They  are  seated  near  the 
door  leading  from  the  first  saloon,  where  Countess  Orsetti 
is  stationed.  In  front  of  them  is  a  group  of  flowering  plants 
and  palm-trees.  Madame  Boccarini  peers  through  the 
leaves,  glass  in  eye.  As  a  general  scans  the  advance  of 


THE  COUNTESS  ORSETTFS  BALL.  91 

the  enemy's  troops  from  behind  an  ambush,  calculates  what 
their  probable  movements  will  be,  and  how  he  can  foil  them 
— either  by  open  attack  or  feigned  retreat,  skirmish  or 
manoeuvre — so  Madame  Boccarini  scans  the  various  arri 
vals  between  the  dark-green  foliage. 

To  her  ever$r  young  and  pretty  woman  is  a  rival  to  her 
daughters  ;  if  a  rival,  an  enemy — if  an  enemy,  to  be  anni 
hilated  if  possible,  or  at  least  disabled,  and  driven  igno- 
miniously  from  the  field. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  Boccarini  girls  are  poor.  They 
will  have  no  portions — every  one  understands  that.  The 
Boccarini  girls  must  marry  as  they  can  ;  no  priest  will  in 
terest  himself  in  their  espousals.  It  was  this  that  made 
Nera  so  attractive.  She  was  perfectly  natural  and  uncon 
ventionally  bold — "  like  an  English  mees,"  it  was  said — 
with  looks  of  horror.  (The  Americans  have  much  to  an 
swer  for ;  they  have  emancipated  young  ladies ;  all  their 
sins,  and  our  own  to  boot,  we  have  to  answer  for  abroad.) 

The  Boccarini  were  in  reality  so  poor  that  it  was  no 
uncommon  thing  for  them  to  remain  at  home  because  they 
could  not  afford  to  buy  new  dresses  in  which  to  display 
themselves.  (Poor  Madame  Boccarini  felt  this  far  more 
than  the  girls  did  themselves.)  To  be  seen  more  than 
thrice  in  the  same  dress  is  impossible.  Lucca  is  so  small, 
every  one's  clothes  are  known.  There  was  no  throw 
ing  dust  in  the  eyes  of  dear  female  friends  in  this  par 
ticular. 

On  the  present  occasion  the  Boccarini  girls  had  made 
great  efforts  to  produce  a  brilliant  result.  Madame  Boc 
carini  had  told  her  daughters  that  they  must  expect  no 
fresh  dresses  for  six  months  at  least,  so  great  had  been 
the  outlay.  Nera,  on  hearing  this,  had  tossed  her  stately 
head,  and  had  inwardly  resolved  that  before  six  months 
she  would  marry — and  that,  dress  or  no  dress,  she  would 
go  wherever  she  had  a  chance  of  meeting  Count  Nobili. 


92  THE   ITALIANS. 

Her  mother  tacitly  concurred  in  these  views,  as  far  as 
Count  Nobili  was  concerned,  but  said  nothing. 

A  Belgravian  mother  who  frankly  drills  her  daughter 
and  points  out,  viva  voce,  when  to  advance  and  when  to 
retreat,  and  to  whom  the  honors  of  war  are  to  be  accorded 
— is  an  article  not  yet  imported  into  classi%  Italy  with  the 
current  Anglomania. 

Beside  Nera  sat  Prince  Ruspoli,  a  young  Roman  of 
great  wealth.  Ruspoli  aspired  to  lead  the  fashion,  but  not 
even  Poole  could  well  tailor  him.  (Ruspoli  was  called 
poule  mouill&e.)  Nature  had  not  intended  it.  His  tall, 
gaunt  figure,  long  arms,  and  thin  legs,  rendered  him  artis 
tically  unavailable.  The  music  has  just  sounded  from  a 
large  saloon  at  the  end  of  the  suite,  and  Prince  Ruspoli  has 
offered  his  arm  to  Nera  for  the  first  waltz.  If  Count  No 
bili  had  arrived,  she  would  have  refused  Ruspoli,  even  on 
the  chance  of  losing  the  dance  ;  but  he  had  not  come.  Her 
sisters,  who  are  older,  and  less  attractive  than  herself,  had 
as  yet  found  no  partners ;  but  they  were  habitually  resigned 
and  amiable,  and  submitted  with  perfect  meekness  to  be 
obliterated  by  Nera. 

A  knot  of  young  men  have  now  formed  near  the  door 
of  the  dancing-saloon.  They  are  eagerly  discussing  the 
cotillon,  the  final  dance  of  the  evening.  Count  Orsetti 
had  left  his  mother's  side  and  joined  them. 

The  cotillon  is  a  matter  of  grave  consideration — the 
very  gravest.  Indeed  it  was  very  seldom  these  young 
heads  considered  any  thing  so  grave.  On  the  success  of 
the  cotillon  depends  the  success  of  the  evening.  All  the 
"  presents "  had  come  from  Paris.  Some  o£  the  figures 
were  new  and  required  consultation. 

"  I  mean  to  dance  with  Teresa  Ottolini,"  announced 
Count  Orsetti,  timidly  —  he  could  not  name  Teresa 
without  reddening.  "  We  arranged  it  together  a  month 


THE  COUNTESS  ORSETTI'S  BALL.  93 

"  And  I  am  engaged  to  Countess  Navascoes,"  said  Count 
Mala  testa. 

This  engagement  was  said  to  have  begun  some  years 
back,  and  to  be  very  enthralling.  No  one  objected,  least 
of  all  the  husband,  who  worshiped  at  the  shrine  of  the 
blooming  Bernardini  when  she  quarreled  with  Civilla.  A 
lady  of  fashion  has  a  choice  of  lovers,  as  she  has  a  choice 
of  dresses — for  all  emergencies. 

"  But  how  about  these  new  figures  ?  "  asked  Orsetti. 

"  Per  Bacco — hear  the  music  !  "  cried  Malatesta.  "  What 
a  delicious  waltz !  I  want  to  dance.  Let's  settle  it  at 
once.  Who's  to  lead  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Baldassare;'  of  course,"  replied  Franchi,  a  sallow, 
languid  young  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  raised 
in  a  hot-house,  and  had  lost  all  his  color.  „"  Nobody  else 
would  take  the  trouble.  Who  is  he  to  dance  with  ?  " 

"Let  him  see  who  will  have  him.  I  shall  not  interfere. 
He'll  dance  for  both,  anyhow,"  answered  Orsetti,  laughing. 
"  No  one  competes  with  Adonis." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  Oh  !  dancing,  of  course,"  returned  Orsetti.  "  Don't 
you  see  him  twirling  round  like  a  teetotum,  with  Marchesa 
Amici  '  of  the  swan-neck  ?  ' '  And  he  pointed  to  a  pair 
who  were  waltzing  with  such  precision  that  they  never  by 
a  single  step  broke  the  circle — Baldassare  gallantly  receiv 
ing  the  charge  of  any  free  lancers  who  flung  themselves  in 
their  path. 

Baldassare  is  much  elated  at  being  permitted  to  dance 
with  "  the  swan-neck,"  a  little  faded  now,  but  once  a  noted 
beauty.  The  swan-neck  is  a  famous  lady.  Ill-natured 
persons  might  have  added  an  awkward  syllable  to  famous. 
She  had  been  very  dear  to  a  great  Russian  magnate  who 
lived  in  a  villa  lined  with  malachite,  and  loaded  her  with 
gifts.  But  as  the  marquis,  her  husband,  was  always  with 
her  and  invariably  spoke  of  his  wife  as  an  angel,  where 


94  THE   ITALIANS. 

was  the  harm  ?  Now  the  Russian  magnate  was  dead,  and 
the  Marchesa  Amici  had  retired  to  Lucca,  to  enjoy  the 
spoils  along  with  her  discreet  and  complaisant  marquis. 

"  How  that  young  fellow. does  push  himself! "  observes 
the  cynical  Franchi.  "  Dancing  with  the  Amici — such  a 
great  lady  !  Nothing  is  sacred  to  him." 

"  I  wish  Nobili  were  come."  It  was  Orsetti  who  spoke 
now.  "  I  should  have  liked  him  to  lead  instead  of  Baldas- 
sare.  Adonis  is  getting  forward.  He  wants  keeping  in 
order.  Will  no  one  else  lead  ?  I  cannot,  in  my  own  house." 

"  Oh  !  but  you  would  mortally  offend  poor  Trenta  if 
you  did  not  let  Baldassare  lead.  The  women  will  keep 
him  in  order,"  was  the  immediate  reply  of  a  young  man 
who  had  not  yet  spoken.  "  The  cavaliere  must  marshal 
the  dancers,  and  Baldassare  must  lead,  or  the  old  man 
would  break  his  heart." 

"  I  wish  Nobili  were  here  all  the  same,"  replied  Orsetti. 
"  If  he  does  not  come  soon,  we  must  select  his  partner  for 
him.  Whom  is  he  to  have  ?  " 

"  Oh !  Nera  Boccarini,  of  course,"  responded  two  or 
three  voices,  amid  a  general  titter. 

"  I  don't  think  Nobili  cares  a  straw  about  Nera,"  put  in 
the  languid  Franchi,  drawling  out  his  words.  "I  have 
heard  quite  another  story  about  Nobili.  Give  Nera  to 
Ruspoli.  He  seems  about  to  take  her  for  life.  I  wish  him 
joy ! "  with  a  sneer.  "  Ruspoli  likes  English  manners. 
Nera  won't  get  Nobili,  my  word  upon  that — there  are  too 
many  stories  about  her." 

But  these  remarks  at  the  moment  passed  unnoticed. 
No  one  asked  what  Franchi  had  heard,  all  being  intent 
about  the  cotillon  and  the  choice  of  partners. 

"  Well,"  burst  out  Orsetti,  no  longer  able  to  resist  the 
music  (the  waltz  had  been  turned  into  a  galop),  "  I  am 
sure  T  don't  care  if  Nobili  or  Ruspoli  likes  Nera.  I  shall 
not  try  to  cut  them  out." 


THE  COUNTESS  ORSETTFS  BALL.  95 

"  No,  no,  not  you,  Orsetti !  We  know  your  taste  does 
not  lie  in  that  quarter.  Yours  is  the  domestic  style,  chaste 
and  frigid ! "  cried  Malatesta,  with  a  sardonic  smile.  There 
was  a  laugh.  Malatesta  was  so  bad,  even  according  to  the 
code  of  the  "golden  youths,"  that  he  compromised  any 
lady  by  his  attentions.  Orsetti  blushed  crimson. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  replied,  much  confused,  "  I  must  go  ; 
my  partner  is  looking  daggers  at  me.  Call  up  old  Trenta 
and  tell  him  what  he  has  to  do."  Orsetti  rushes  off  to  the 
next  room,  where  Teresa  Ottolini  is  waiting  for  him,  with 
a  look  of  gentle  reproach  in  her  sleepy  eyes,  where  lies  the 
hidden  fire. 

Meanwhile  Cavaliere  Trenta's  white  head,  immaculate 
blue  coat  and  gold  buttons — to  which  coat  were  attached 
several  orders — had  been  seen  hovering  about  from  chair 
to  chair  through  the  rooms.  He  attached  himself  specially 
to  elderly  ladies,  his  contemporaries.  To  these  he  repeated 
the  identical  high-flown  compliments  he  had  addressed  to 
them  thirty  years  before,  in  the  court  circle  of  the  Duke  of 
Lucca — compliments  such  as  elderly  ladies  love,  though 
conscious  all  the  time  of  their  absurd  inappropriateness. 

Like  the  dried-up  rose-bud  of  one's  youth,  religiously 
preserved  as  a  relic,  there  is  a  faint  flavor  of  youth  and 
pleasure  about  them,  sweet  still,  as  a  remembrance  of  the 
past.  "  Always  beautiful,  always  amiable  !  "  murmured  the 
cavaliere,  like  a  rhyme,  a  placid  smile  upon  his  rosy  face. 

Summoned  to  the  cabinet  council  held  near  the  door, 
Trenta  becomes  intensely  interested.  He  weighs  each  de 
tail,  he  decides  every  point  with  the  gravity  of  a  judge  : 
how  the  new  figures  are  to  be  danced,  and  with  whom  Bal- 
dassare  is  to  lead — no  one  else  could  do  it.  He  himself 
would  marshal  the  dances. 

The  double  orchestra  now  play  as  if  they  were  trying 
to  drown  each  other.  Half  a  dozen  rooms  are  full  of  dan 
cers.  The  matrons,  and  older  men,  have  subsided  into 


96  THE  ITALIANS. 

whist  up-stairs.  All  the  ladies  have  found  partners ;  there 
is  not  a  single  wall-flower. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  stately  propriety  of  the  ball. 
It  was  a  grand  and  stately  gathering.  Nobody  but  Nera 
Boccarini  was  natural.  "  To  save  appearances "  is  the 
social  law.  "  Do  what  you  like,  but  save  appearances." 
A  dignified  hypocrisy  none  disobey.  These  men  and  wom 
en,  with  the  historic  names,  dare  not  show  each  other  what 
they  are.  There  was  no  flirting,  no  romping,  no  loud 
laughter ;  not  a  loud  word — no  telltale  glances,  no  sitting 
in  corners.  It  was  a  pose  throughout.  Men  bowed  cere 
moniously,  and  addressed  as  strangers  ladies  with  whom 
they  spent  every  evening.  Husbands  devoted  themselves 
to  wives  whom  they  never  saw  but  in  public.  Innocence 
may  betray  itself,  seems  to  betray  itself — guilt  never. 
Guilt  is  cautious. 

At  this  moment  Count  Nobili  entered.  He  was  re 
ceived  with  lofty  courtesy  by  the  countess.  Her  manner 
implied  a  gentle  protest.  Count  Nobili  was  a  banker's  son ; 
his  mother  was  not — n&e — any  thing.  Still  he  was  wel 
come.  She  graciously  bent  her  head,  on  which  a  tiara  of 
diamonds  glittered— in  acknowledgment  of  his  compliments 
on  the  brilliancy  of  her  ball. 

Nobili's  address  was  frank  and  manly.  There  was  an 
ease  and  freedom  about  him  that  contrasted  favorably  with 
the  effeminate  appearance  and  affected  manners  of  the 
jeunesse  dorie.  His  voice,  too,  was  a  pleasant  voice,  and 
gave  a  value  to  all  he  said.  A  sunny  smile  lighted  up  his 
fair-complexioned  face,  the  face  old  Carlotta  had  called 
« lucky." 

"  You  are  very  late,"  the  countess  had  said,  with  the 
slightest  tone  of  annoyance  in  her  voice — fanning  herself 
languidly  as  she  spoke.  "  My  son  has  been  looking  for 
you." 

"  It  has  been  my  loss,  Signora  Contessa,"  replied  Nobili, 


THE   COUNTESS  ORSETTI'S   BALL.  97 

bowing.  "  Pardon  me.  I  was  delayed.  With  your  per 
mission,  I  will  find  your  son."  He  bowed  again,  then 
walked  on  into  the  dancing-rooms  beyond. 

Nobili  had  come  late.  "  Why  should  he  go  at  all  ?  " 
he  had  asked  himself,  sighing,  as  he  sat  at  home,  smoking 
a  solitary  cigar.  "  What  was  the  Orsetti  ball,  or  any  other 
ball,  to  him,  when  Enrica  was  not  there  ?  " 

Nevertheless,  he  did  dress,  and  he  did  go,  telling  him 
self,  however,  that  he  was  simply  fulfilling  a  social  duty  by 
so  doing.  Now  that  he  is  here,  standing  in  the  ballroom, 
the  incense  of  the  flowers  in  his  nostrils,  the  music  thrilling 
in  his  ear — now  that  flashing  eyes,  flushed  cheeks,  graceful 
forms  palpitating  with  the  fury  of  the  dance — and  hands 
with  clasping  fingers,  are  turned  toward  him — does  he  still 
feel  regretful — sad  ?  Not  in  the  least. 

No  sooner  had  he  arrived  than  he  found  himself  the 
object  of  a  species  of  ovation.  This  put  him  into  the  high 
est  possible  spirits.  It  was  most  gratifying.  He  could 
not  possibly  do  less  than  return  these  salutations  with  the 
same  warmth  with  which  they  were  offered. 

Not  that  Count  Nobili  acknowledged  any  inferiority  to 
those  among  whom  he  moved  as  an  equal.  Count  Nobili 
held  that,  in  New  Italy,  every  man  is  a  gentleman  who  is 
well  educated  and  well  mannered.  As  to  the  language 
the  Marchesa  Guinigi  used  about  him,  he  shook  with 
laughter  whenever  it  was  mentioned. 

So  it  fell  out  that,  before  he  had  arrived  many  minutes, 
the  remembrance  of  Enrica  died  out,  and  Nobili  flung  him 
self  into  the  spirit  of  the  ball  with  all  the  ardor  of  his  na 
ture. 

"  Why  did  you  come  so  late,  Nobili  ?  "  asked  Orsetti, 
turning  his  head,  and  speaking  in  the  pause  of  a  waltz 
with  Luisa  Bernardini.  "  You  must  go  at  once  and  talk  to 
Trenta  about  the  cotillon." 

"  Well,  Nobili,  you  gave  us  a  splendid  entertainment 
5 


98  THE  ITALIANS. 

for  the  festival,"  said  Franchi.  "  Per  Dio !  there  were  no 
women  to  trouble  us." 

"  No  women  !  "  exclaimed  Civilla — "  that  was  the  only 
fault.  Divine  woman ! — Otherwise  it  was  superb.  Who 
has  been  ill-treating  you,  Franchi,  to  make  you  so  sav 
age  ?" 

Franchi  put  up  his  eye-glass  and  stared  at  him. 

"  When  there  is  good  wine,  I  prefer  to  drink  it  without 
women.  They  distract  me." 

"Never  saw  such  a  reception  in  Lucca,"  said  Count 
Malatesta  ;  "  never  drank  such  wine.  Go  on,  caro  mio,  go 
on,  and  prosper.  We  will  all  support  you,  but  we  cannot 
imitate  you." 

Nobili,  passing  on  quickly,  nearly  ran  over  Cavaliere 
Trenta.  He  was  in  the  act  of  making  a  profound  obeisance, 
as  he  handed  an  ice  to  one  of  his  contemporaries. 

"  Ah,  youth  !  youth !  "  exclaimed  poor  Trenta,  softly, 
with  difficulty  recovering  his  equilibrium  by  the  help  of  his 
stick. — "  Never  mind,  Count  Nobili,  don't  apologize  ;  I  can 
bear  any  thing  from  a  young  man  who  celebrates  the  festi 
val  of  the  Holy  Countenance  with  such  magnificence.  Per 
Bacco  !  you  are  the  best  Lucchese  in  Lucca.  I  have  seen 
nothing  like  it  since  the  duke  left.  My  son,  it  was  worthy 
of  the  palace  you  inhabit." 

Ah !  could  the  marchesa  have  heard  this,  she  would 
never  have  spoken  to  Trenta  again  ! 

"  You  gratify  me  exceedingly,  cavaliere,"  replied  Nobili, 
really  pleased  at  the  old  man's  praise.  "  I  desire,  as  far  as 
I  can,  to  become  Lucchese  at  heart.  Why  should  not  the 
festivals  of  New  Italy  exceed  those  of  the  old  days  ?  At 
least,  I  shall  do  my  best  that  it  be  so." 

"  Eh  ?  eh  ? "  replied  Trenta,  rubbing  his  nose  with  a 
doubtful  expression ;  "  difficult — very  difficult.  In  the  old 
days,  my  young  friend,  society  was  a  system.  Each  sover 
eign  was  the  centre  of  a  permanent  court  circle.  There 


THE  COUNTESS  ORSETTTS  BALL.  99 

were  many  sovereigns  and  many  circles — many  purses,  too, 
to  pay  the  expenses  of  each  circle.  Now  it  is  all  hap-haz- 
ard  ;  no  money,  no  court,  no  king." 

"  No  king  ?  "  exclaimed  Nobili,  with  surprise. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  count,"  answered  the  urbane  Trenta, 
remembering  Nobili's  liberal  politics — "  I  mean  no  society. 
Society,  as  a  system,  has  ceased  to  exist  in  Italy.  But  we 
must  think  of  the  cotillon.  It  it  now  twelve  o'clock. 
There  will  be  supper.  Then  we  must  soon  begin.  You, 
count,  are  to  dance  with  Nera  Boccarini.  You  came  so 
late  we  were  obliged  to  arrange  it  for  you." 

Nobili  colored  crimson.. 

"  Does  the  lady — does  Nera  Boccarini  know  this  ?  "  he 
asked,  and  as  he  asked  his  color  heightened. 

"  Well,  I  cannot  tell  you,  but  I  presume  she  does. 
Count  Orsetti  will  have  told  her.  The  cotillon  was  settled 
early.  You  have  no  objection  to  dance  with  her,  I  pre 
sume  ?  " 

"  None — none  in  the  world.  Why  should  I  ?  "  replied 
Nobili,  hastily  (now  the  color  of  his  cheeks  had  grown 
crimson).  "  Only — only  I  might  not  have  selected  her." 
The  cavaliere  looked  up  at  him  with  evident  surprise.  "  Am 
I  obliged  to  dance  the  cotillon  at  all,  cavaliere  ? "  added 
Nobili,  more  and  more  confused.  "  Can't  I  sit  out  ?  " 

"  Oh,  impossible — simply  impossible  ! "  cried  Trenta, 
authoritatively.  "  Every  couple  is  arranged.  Not  a  man 
could  fill  your  place ;  the  whole  thing  would  be  a  fail 
ure." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  answered  Nobili,  in  a  low  voice — "  sorry 
all  the  same." 

"  Now  go,  and  find  your  partner,"  said  Trenta,  not  heed 
ing  this  little  speech.  "  I  am  about  to  have  the  chairs  ar 
ranged.  Go  and  find  your  partner." 

"  Now  what  could  make  Nobili  object  to  dance  with 
Nera  Boccarini  ?  "  Trenta  asked  himself,  when  Nobili  was 


100  .THE  ITALIANS. 

gone,  striking  liis  stick  loudly  on  the  floor,  as  a  sign  for  the 
music  to  cease. 

There  was  an  instant  silence.  The  gentlemen  handed 
the  ladies  to  a  long  gallery,  the  last  of  the  suite  of  the 
rooms  on  the  ground-floor.  Here  a  buffet  was  arranged. 
The  musicians  also  were  refreshed  with  good  wine  and  liq 
uors,  before  the  arduous  labors  of  the  cotillon  commenced. 
No  brilliant  cotillon  ends  before  8  A.  M.  ;  then  there  is 
breakfast  and  driving  home  by  daylight  at  ten  o'clock. 

Nobili,  his  cheeks  still  tingling,  felt  that  the  moment 
had  come  when  he  must  seek  his  partner.  It  would  be  dif 
ficult  to  define  the  contending  feelings  that  made  him  re 
luctant  to  do  so.  Nera  Boccarini  had  taken  no  pains  to 
conceal  how  much  she  liked  him.  This  was  flattering ;  per 
haps  he  felt  it  was  too  flattering.  There  was  a  determina 
tion  about  Nera,  a  power  of  eye  and  tongue,  an  exuber 
ance  of  sensuous  youth,  that  repelled  while  it  allured  him. 
It  was  like  new  wine,  luscious  to  the  taste,  but  strong  and 
heavy.  New  wine  is  very  intoxicating.  Nobili  loved  En- 
rica.  At  that  moment  every  woman  that  did  not  in  some 
subtile  way  remind  him  of  her,  was  distasteful  to  him. 
Now,  it  was  not  possible  to  find  two  women  more  utterly 
different,  more  perfect  contrasts,  than  the  dreamy,  reserved, 
tender  Enrica — so  seldom  seen,  so  little  known — and  the 
joyous,  outspoken  Nera — to  be  met  with  at  every  mass, 
every  fete,  in  the  shops,  on  the  Corso,  on  the  ramparts. 

Now,  Nera,  who  had  been  dancing  much  with  Prince 
Ruspoli,  had  heard  from  him  that  Nobili  was  selected  as 
her  partner  in  the  cotillon. 

"  Another  of  your  victims,"  Prince  Ruspoli  had  said, 
with  a  kindling  eye. 

Nera  had  laughed  gayly. 

"  My  victims  ?  "  she  retorted.  "  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me  who  they  are." 

This  question  was   accompanied  by  a   most   inviting 


THE   COUNTESS  ORSETTI'S  BALL.  101 

glance.  .  Prince  Ruspoli  met  her  glance,  but  said  nothing. 
(Nora  greatly  preferred  Nobili,  but  it  is  well  to  have  two 
strings  to  one's  bow,  and  Ruspoli  was  a  prince  with  a 
princely  revenue.) 

When  Nobili  appeared,  Prince  Ruspoli,  who  had  handed 
Nera  to  a  seat  near  a  window,  bowed  to  her  and  retir.ed. 

"  To  the  devil  with  Nobili  !  "  was  Prince  Ruspoli's 
thought,  as  he  resigned  her.  "  I  do  like  that  girl — she  is 
so  English  !  "  and  Ruspoli  glanced  at  Poole's  dress-clothes, 
which  fitted  him  so  badly,  and  remembered  with  satisfac 
tion  certain  balls  in  London,  and  certain  water-parties  at 
Maidenhead  (Ruspoli  had  been  much  in  England),  where 
he  had  committed  the  most  awful  solecisms,  according  to 
Italian  etiquette,  with  frank,  merry-hearted  girls,  whose 
buoyant  spirits  were  contagious. 

Nobili's  eyes  fell  instinctively  to  the  ground  as  he  ap 
proached  Nera.  The  rosy  shadow  of  the  red-silk  curtains 
behind  her  fell  upon  her  face,  bosom,  and  arms,  with  a  ruddy 
glow. 

"  I  am  to  have  the  honor  of  dancing  the  cotillon  with 
you,  I  believe  ?  "  he  said,  still  looking  down. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so,"  she  responded — "  at  least  so  I  am 
told  ;  but  you  have  not  asked  me  yet.  Perhaps  you  would 
prefer  some  one  else.  I  confess  -Tarn  satisfied." 

As  she  spoke,  Nera  riveted  her  full  black  eyes  upon 
Nobili.  If  he  only  would  look  up,  she  would  reacl  his 
thoughts,  and  tell  him  her  own  thoughts  also.  But  Nobili 
did  not  look  up ;  he  felt  her  gaze,  nevertheless  ;  it  thrilled 
him  through  and  through. 

At  this  moment,  the  melody  of  a  voluptuous  waltz,  the 
opening  of  the  cotillon,  burst  from  the  orchestra  with  an 
entrain  that  might  have  moved  an  anchorite.  As  the 
sounds  struck  upon  his  ear,  Nobili  grew  dizzy  under  the 
magnetism  of  those  unseen  eyes.  His  cheeks  flushed  sud 
denly,  and  the  blood  stirred  itself  tumultuously  in  his  veins. 


102  THE  ITALIANS. 

"  Why  should  I  repulse  this  girl  because  she  lovgs  me  ?  " 
he  asked  himself. 

This  question  came  to  him,  wafted,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
wings  of  the  music. 

"  Count  Nobili,  you  have  not  answered  me,"  insisted 
Nera.  She  had  not  moved.  "  You  are  very  absent  this 
evening.  Do  you  wish  to  dance  with  me  ?  Tell  me." 

She  dwelt  upon  the  words.  Her  voice  was  low  and 
very  pleading.  Nobili  had  not  yet  spoken. 

"  I  ask  you  again,"  she  said. 

This  time  her  voice  sounded  most  enticing.  She  touched 
his  arm,  too,  la}ring  her  soft  fingers  upon  it,  and  gazed  up 
into  his  face.  Still  no  answer.  • 

"  Will  you  not  speak  to  me,  Nobili  ?  "  She  leaned  for 
ward,  and  grasped  his  arm  convulsively.  "  Nobili,  tell  me, 
I  implore  you,  what  have  I  done  to  offend  you  ?  " 

Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  Nobili  felt  her  hand  trem 
ble. 

He  looked  up ;  their  eyes  met.  There  was  a  fire  in  hers 
that  was  contagious.  His  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  Press 
ing  within  his  own  the  hand  that  still  rested  so  lovingly 
upon  his  arm,  Nobili  gave  a  rapid  glance  round.  The  room 
was  empty ;  they  were  standing  alone  near  the  window, 
concealed  by  the  ample  curtains.  Now  the  red  shadow  fell 
upon  them  both — 

"«This  shall  be  my  answer,  Nera — siren,"  whispered 
Nobili. 

As  he  speaks  he  clasps  her  in  his  arms  ;  a  passionate 
kiss  is  imprinted  upon  her  lips. 

Hours  have  passed  ;  one  intoxicating  waltz-measure  has 
been  exchanged  for  another,  that  falls  upon  the  ear  as  en 
thralling  as  the  last.  Not  an  instant  had  the  dances  ceased. 
The  Cavaliere  Trenta,  his  round  face  beaming  with  smiles,  is 
seated  in  an  arm-chair  at  the  top  of  the  largest  ballroom. 


THE   COUNTESS  ORSETTI'S  BALL.  103 

He  keeps  time  with  his  foot.  Now  and  then  he  raps  loud 
ly  with  his  stick  on  the  floor  and  calls  out  the  changes  of 
the  figures.  Baldassare  and  Luisa  Bernardini  lead  with  the 
grace  and  precision  of  practised  dancers. 

"  Brava !  brava !  a  thousand  times !  Brava !  "  calls  out 
the  cavaliere  from  his  arm-chair,  clapping  his  hands.  "You 
did  that  beautifully,  marchesa !  " — This  was  addressed  to 
the  swan's-neck,  who  had  circled  round,  conducted  by  her 
partner,  selecting  such  gentlemen  as  she  pleased,  and  group 
ing  them  in  one  spot,  in  order  to  form  a  bouquet.  "  You 
couldn't  have  done  it  better  if  you  had  been  taught  in 
Paris. — Forward  !  forward ! "  to  a  timid  couple,  to  whom 
the  intricacies  of  the  figure  were  evidently  distracting. 
Belle  donne  !  belle  donne  !  Victory  to  the  brave !  Fear 
nothing. — Orsetti,  keep  the  circle  down  there ;  you  are  out 
of  your  place.  You  will  never  form  the  bouquet  if  you 
don't —  Louder !  louder ! "  to  the  musicians,  holding  up 
his  stick  at  them  like  a  marshal's  baton — "  loud  as  they 
advance — then  piano — diminuendo — pia-nis-si-mo — as  they 
retreat.  That  sort  of  thing  gives  picturesqueness — light 
and  shade,  like  a  picture.  Hi !  hi"!  Malatesta !  The 
devil !  You  are  spoiling  every  thing !  Didn't  I  tell  you 
to  present  the  flowers  to  your  partner?  So — so.  The 
flowers — they  are  there."  Trenta  pointed  to  a  table.  He 
struggled  to  rise  to  fetch  the  bouquets  himself.  Malatesta 
was  too  quick  for  him,  however. 

"  Now  bring  up  all  the  ladies  and  place  them  in  chairs  ; 
bow  to  them,"  etc.,  etc. 

Thanks  to  the  energy  of  the  cavaliere,  and  the  agility 
of  Baldassare — who,  it  is  admitted  on  all  hands,  had  never 
distinguished  himself  so  much  as  on  this  occasion — all  the 
difficulties  of  the  new  figures  have  been  triumphantly  sur 
mounted.  Gentlemen  had  become  spokes  of  a  gigantic 
wheel  that  whirled  round  a  lady  seated  on  a  chair  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  They  had  been  named  as  roots,  trees, 


1 0-1  THE  ITALIANS. 

and  even  vegetables  ;  they  had  answered  to  such  names, 
seeking  corresponding  weeds  as  their  partners.  At  a  clap 
of  the  cavaliere's  hands  they  had  dashed  off  wildly,  waltz 
ing.  Gentlemen  had  worn  paper  nightcaps,  put  on  masks, 
and  been  led  about  blindfold.  They  had  crept  under  chairs, 
waved  flags  from  tables,  thrown  up  colored  balls,  and  un 
raveled  puzzles — all  to  the  rhythm  of  the  waltz-measure 
babbling  on  like  a  summer  brooklet  under  the  sun,  through 
emerald  meadows. 

And  now  the  exciting  moment  of  the  ribbons  is  come 
— the  moment  when  the  best  presents  are  to  be  produced 
— the  ribbons — a  sheaf  of  rainbow-colors,  fastened  into  a 
strong  golden  ring,  which  ring  is  to  be  held  by  a  single 
lady,  each  gentleman  grasping  (as  best  he  can)  a  single 
ribbon.  As  long  as  the  lady  seated  on  the  chair  in  the 
centre  pleases,  the  gentlemen  are  to  gjTate  round  her. 
When  she  drops  the  ring  holding  the  sheaf  of  ribbons,  the 
Cavaliere  Trenta  is  to  clap  his  hands,  and  each  gentleman 
is  instantly  to  select  that  lady  who  wears  a  rosette  corre 
sponding  in  color  to  his  ribbon — the  lady  in  the  chair  being 
claimed  by  her  partner. 

Nobili  has  placed  Nera  Boccarini  on  the  chair  in  the 
centre.  (Ever  since  the  flavor  of  that  fervid  kiss  has  rest 
ed  on  his  lips,  Nobili  has  been  lost  in  a  delicious  dream. 
"Why  should  not  he  and  Nera  dance  on — on — on — for 
ever  ? — Into  indefinite  space,  if  possible — only  together  ?  " 
He  asks  himself  this  question  vaguely,  as  she  rests  within 
his  arms — as  he  drinks  in  the  subtile  perfume  of  the  red 
roses  bound  in  her  glossy  hair.) 

Nera  is  triumphant.  Nobili  is  her  own !  As  she  sits 
in  that  chair  when  he  has  placed  her,  she  is  positively  ra 
diant.  Love  has  given  an  unknown  tenderness  to  her  eyes, 
a  more  delicate  brilliancy  to  her  cheeks,  a  softness,  almost 
a  languor,  to  her  movements.  (Look  out,  acknowledged 
belle  of  Lucca — look  out,  Teresa  Ottolini — here  is  a  dan- 


TI1E  COUNTESS   ORSETTl'S  BALL.  105 

gerous  rival  to  your  supremacy  !  If  Nobili  loves  Nera  as 
Nera  believes  he  does — Nera  will  ripen  quickly  into  yet 
more  transcendent  beauty.) 

Now  Nobili  has  left  Nera,  seated  in  the  chair.  He  is 
distributing  the  various  ribbons  among  the  dancers.  As 
there  are  over  a  hundred  couples,  and  there  is  some  mur 
muring  and  struggling  to  secure  certain  ladies,  who  match 
certain  ribbons,  this  is  difficult,  and  takes  time.  See — it 
is  done ;  again  Nobili  retires  behind  Nera's  chair,  to  wait 
the  moment  when  he  shall  claim  her  himself. 

How  the  men  drag  at  the  ribbons,  whirling  round  and 
round,  hand-in-hand  ! — Nera's  small  hand  can  scarcely  hold 
them — the  men  whirling  round  every  instant  faster — tum- 
blin"-  over  each  other,  indeed;  each  moment  the  ribbons 

O  '  /    • 

are  dragged  harder.  Nera  laughs ;  she  sways  from  side 
to  side,  her  arms  extended.  Faster  and  more  furiously  the 
men  whirl  round — like  runaway  horses  now,  bearing  dead 
upon  the  reins.  The  strain  is  too  great,  Nera  lets  fall  the 
ring.  The  cavaliere  claps  his  hands.  Each  gentleman 
rushes  toward  the  lady  wearing  a  rosette  matching  his  rib 
bon.  Nera  rises.  Already  she  is  encircled  by  Nobili's 
arm.  He  draws  her  to  him ;  she  makes  one  step  forward. 
Nera  is  a  bold,  firm  dancer,  but,  unknown  to  her,  the  rib 
bons  in  falling  have  become  entangled  about  her  feet ;  she 
is  bound,  she  cannot  stir;  she  gives  a  little  scream.  No 
bili,  startled,  suddenly  loosens  his  hold  upon  her  waist. 
Nera  totters,  extends  her  arms,  then  falls  heavily  back 
ward,  her  head  striking  on  the  parquet  floor.  There  is  a 
cry  of  horror.  Every  dancer  stops.  They  gather  round 
her  where  she  lies.  Her  face  is  turned  upward,  her  eyes 
are  set  and  glassy,  her  cheeks  are  ashen. 

"  Holy  Virgin ! "  cries  Nobili,  in  a  voice  of  anguish,  "  I 
have  killed  her!"  He  casts  himself  on  the  floor  beside 
her — he  raises  her  in  his  strong  arms.  "Air,  air! — give 
her  air,  or  she  will  die  ! "  he  cries. 


106  THE  ITALIANS. 

Putting  every  one  aside,  he  carries  Nera  to  the  nearest 
window,  he  lays  her  tenderly  on  a  sofa.  It  is  the  very  spot 
where  he  had  kissed  her — under  the  fiery  shadow  of  the 
red  curtain.  Alas !  Nobili  is  sobered  now  from  the  pas 
sion  of  that  moment.  The  glamour  has  departed  with  the 
light  of  Nera's  eyes.  He  is  ashamed  of  himself;  but  there 
is  a  swelling  at  his  heart,  nevertheless — an  impulse  of  in 
finite  compassion  toward  the  girl  who  lies  senseless  before 
him — her  beauty,  her  undisguised  love  for  him,  plead  pow 
erfully  for  her.  Does  he  love  her  ? 

The  Countess  Boccarini  and  Nera's  sisters  are  by  her 
side.  The  poor  mother  at  first  is  speechless ;  she  can  only 
chafe  her  child's  cold  hands,  and  kiss  her  white  lips. 

"  Nera,  Nera,"  at  last  she  whispers,  "  Nera,  speak  to 
me — speak  to  me — one  word — only  one  word !  " 

"  But,  alas !  there  is  no  sign  of  animation — to  all  ap 
pearance  Nera  is  dead.  Nobili,  convinced  that  he  alone  is 
responsible,  and  too  much  agitated  to  care  what  he  does, 
kneels  beside  her,  and  places  his  hand  upon  her  heart. 

"  She  lives !  she  lives ! "  he  cries— "  her  heart  beats ! 
Thank  God,  I  have  not  killed  her ! " 

This  leap  from  death  to  life  is  too  much  for  him ;  he 
staggers  to  his  feet,  falls  into  a  chair,  and  sobs  aloud. 
Nera's  eyelids  tremble ;  she  opens  her  eyes,  her  lips  move. 

"  Nera,  my  child,  my  darling,  speak  to  me  ! "  cries  Ma 
dame  Boccarini.  "  Tell  me  that  you  can  hear  me." 

Nera  tries  to  raise  her  head,  but  in  vain.  It  falls  back 
upon  the  cushion. 

"  Home,  mamma — home ! "  her  lips  feebly  whisper. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Nobili  starts  up;  he  brushes 
away  the  tears  that  still  roll  down  his  cheeks.  Again  he 
lifts  Nera  tenderly  in  his  arms.  For  that  night  Nera  be 
longs  to  him ;  no  one  else  shall  touch  her.  He  bears  her 
down-stairs  to  a  carriage.  Then  he  disappears  into  the 
darkness  of  the  night. 


THE  COUNTESS  ORSETTI'S  BALL.  107 

No  one  will  leave  the  ball  until  there  is  some  report  of 
Nera's  condition  from  the  doctor  who  has  been  summoned. 
The  gay  groups  sit  around  the  glittering  ballroom,  and 
whisper  to  each  other.  The  "  golden  youth  "  offer  bets  as 
to  Nera's  recovery ;  the  ladies,  who  are  jealous,  back  freely 
against  it.  In  half  an  hour,  however,  Countess  Orsetti  is 
able  to  announce  that  "  Nera  Boccarini  is  better,  and  that, 
beyond  the  shock,  it  is  hoped  that  she  is  not  seriously 
hurt." 

"  You  see,  Malatesta,  I  *was  right,"  drawls  out  the  lan 
guid  Franchi  as  he  descends  the  stairs.  "  You  will  believe 
me  another  time.  You  know  I  told  you  and  Orsetti  that 
Nera  Boccarini  and  Nobili  understood  each  other.  He's 
desperately  in  love  with  her." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  all  the  same,"  answers  Malatesta, 
shaking  his  head.  "  A  man  can't  half  kill  a  girl  and  show 
no  compunction — specially  not  Nobili — the  best-hearted 
fellow  breathing.  Nobili  is  just  the  man  to  feel  such  an 
accident  as  that  dreadfully.  How  splendid  Nera  looked 
to-night !  She  quite  cut  out  the  Ottolini."  Malatesta 
spoke  with  enthusiasm ;  he  had  a  practised  eye  for  wom 
an's  fine  points.  "Here,  Adonis — I  beg  your  pardon — 
Baldassare,  I  mean — where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Home,"  replies  the  Greek  mask. 

"  Never  mind  home ;  we  are  all  obliged  to  you.  You 
lead  the  cotillon  admirably." 

Baldassare  smiles,  and  shows  two  rows  of  faultless 
teeth. 

"  Come  and  have  some  supper  with  us  at  the  Universo. 
Franchi  is  coming,  and  all  our  set." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  replies  Baldassare,  smil 
ing. 


PART    II. 

CHAPTER  I. 

CALUMNY. 

BALDASSARE  was,  of  course,  invited  by  the  cavaliere  to 
join  the  proposed  expedition  to  the  tombs  of  the  Trenta 
and  to  the  Guinigi  Tower.  Half  an  hour  before  the  time 
appointed  he  appeared  at  the  Palazzo  Trenta.  The  cava 
liere  was  ready,  and  they  went  out  into  the  street  together. 

"If  you  have  not  been  asleep  since  the  ball,  Baldas- 
sare — which  is  probable — perhaps  you  can  tell  me  how 
Nera  Boccarini  is  this  "morning?" 

"  She  is  quite  well,  I  understand,"  answered  Adonis, 
with  an  air  of  great  mystery,  as  he  smoothed  his  scented 
beard.  "  She  is  only  a  little  shaken." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  exclaimed  the  cavaliere.  "  Never  was  I 
present  at  any  thing  like  that !  A  love-scene  in  public  ! 
Once,  indeed,  I  remember,  on  one  occasion,  when  her  high 
ness  Paulina  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  his  serene  high 
ness — " 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  "  asked  Baldassare,  inter 
rupting  him. 

He  dreaded  a  long  tirade  from  the  old  chamberlain  on 
the  subject  of  his  court  reminiscences ;  besides,  Baldassare 
was  bursting  with  a  startling  piece  of  intelligence  as  yet 
evidently  unknown  to  Trenta. 


CALUMNY.  109 

"  News  ! — no,"  answered  the  cavaliere,  contemptuously. 
"  I  dare  say  it  is  some  lie.  You  have,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
Baldassare,  all  the  faults  of  a  person  new  to  society ;  you 
believe  every  thing." 

Baldassare  eyed  the  cavaliere  defiantlj' ;  but  he  pulled 
at  his  curled  mustache  in  silence. 

The  cavaliere  stopped  short,  raised  his  head,  and  scanned 
him  attentively. 

"  Out  with  it,  my  boy,  out  with  it,  or  it  will  choke  you  ! 
I  see  you  are  dying  to  tell  me  !  " 

"  Not  at  all,  cavaliere,"  replied  Baldassare,  with  as 
sumed  indifference  ;  "  only  I  must  say  that  I  believe  you 
are  the  only  person  in  Lucca  who  has  not  heard  it." 

"  Heard  what  ?  "  demanded  Trenta,  angrily. 

Baldassare  knew  the  cavaliere's  weak  point ;  he  de 
lighted  to  tease  him.  Trenta  considered  himself,  and  was 
generally  considered  by  others,  as  a  universal  news-monger ; 
it  was  a  habit  that  had  remained  to  him  from  his  former 
life  at  court.  From  the  time  of  Polonius  downward  a 
court-chamberlain  has  always  been  a  news-monger. 

"  Heard  ?  Why,  the  news — the  great  news,"  Baldas 
sare  spoke  in  the  same  jeering  tone.  He  drew  himself  up, 
affecting  to  look  over  the  cavaliere's  head  as  he  bent  on 
his  stick  before  him. 

"  Go  on,"  retorted  the  cavaliere,  doggedly. 

"  How  strange  you  have  not  heard  any  thing ! "  Trenta 
now  looked  so  enraged,  Baldassare  thought  it  was  time  to 
leave  off  bantering  him.  "  Well,  then,  cavaliere,  since  you 
really  appear  to  be  ignorant,  I  will  tell  you.  After  you 
left  the  Orsetti  ball,  Malatesta  asked  me  and  the  other 
young  men  of  their  set  to  supper  at  the  Universe  Hotel." 

"  Mercy  on  us  !  "  ejaculated  the  cavaliere,  who  was  now 
thoroughly  irritated,  "  you  consider  yourself  one  of  their 
set,  do  you  ?  I  congratulate  you,  young  man.  This  is 
news  to  me." 


HO  THE  ITALIANS. 

"  Certainly,  cavaliere,  if  you  ask  me,  I  do  consider  my 
self  one  of  their  set." 

The  cavaliere  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously. 

"We  talked  of  the  accident,"  continued  Baldassare, 
affecting  not  to  notice  his  sneers,  "  and  we  talked  of  No- 
bili.  Many  said,  as  you  do,  that  Nobili  is  in  love  with 
Nera  Boccarini,  and  that  he  would  certainly  marry  her. 
Malatesta  laughed,  as  is  his  way,  then  he  swore  a  little. 
Nobili  would  do  no  such  thing,  he  'declared,  he  would  an 
swer  for  it.  He  had  it  on  the  best  authority,  he  said, 
that  of  an  eye-witness."  (Ah,  cruel  old  Carlotta,  you  have 
made  good  your  threat  of  vengeance  !)  "  An  eye-witness 
had  said  that  Nobili  was  in  love  with  some  one  else — some 
one  who  wrote  to  him  ;  that  they  had  been  watched — that 
he  met  some  one  secretly,  and  that  by-and-by  all  the  city 
would  know  it,  and  that  there  would  be  a  great  scandal." 

"  And  who  may  the  lady  be  ?  "  asked  the  cavaliere  care 
lessly,  raising  his  head  as  he  put  the  question,  with  a  sar 
donic  glance  at  Baldassare.  "  Not  that  I  believe  one  word 
Malatesta  says.  He  is  a  young  coxcomb,  and  you,  Baldas 
sare,  are  a  parrot,  and  repeat  what  you  hear.  Per  Bacco  ! 
if  there  had  been  any  thing  serious,  I  should  have  known 
it  long  ago.  Who  is  the  lady  ?  "  Spite  of  himself,  how 
ever,  his  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  curiosity. 

"  The  marchesa's  niece,  Enrica  Guinigi." 

"  What !  "  roared  out  the  cavaliere,  striking  his  stick 
so  violently  on  the  ground  that  the  sound  echoed  through 
the  solitary  street.  "  Enrica  Guinigi,  whom  I  see  every 
day  !  What  a  lie  ! — what  a  base  lie  !  How  dare  Mala 
testa — the  beast — say  so  ?  I  will  chastise  him  myself ! — 
with  my  own  hand,  old  as  I  am,  I  will  chastise  him  !  En 
rica  Guinigi ! " 

Baldassare  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  a  grimace. 
This  incensed  the  cavaliere  more  violently. 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,  Baldassare  Lena,'*  shouted  the 


CALUMNY.  HI 

cavaliere,  advancing,  and  putting  his  fist  almost  into  his 
face.  "  Your  father  is  a  chemist,  and  keeps  a  shop.  He 
is  not  a  doctor,  though  you  call  him  so.  If  ever  you  pre 
sume  again  to  repeat  scandals  such  as  this — scandals,  I  say, 
involving  the  reputation  of  noble  ladies,  my  friends — ladies 
into  whose  houses  I  have  introduced  you,  there  shall  be  no 
more  question  of  your  being  of  their  '  set.''  I  will  take  care 
that  you  never  enter  one  of  their  doors  again.  By  the  body 
of  my  holy  ancestor,  San  Riccardo,  I  will  disgrace  you — 
publicly  disgrace  you  !  " 

Trenta's  rosy  face  had  grown  purple,  his  lips  worked 
convulsively.  He  raised  his  stick,  and  flourished  it  in  the 
air,  as  if  about  to  make  it  descend  like  a  truncheon  on 
Baldassare's  shoulders.  Adonis  drew  back  a  step  or  two, 
following  with  his  eyes  the  cavaliere's  movements.  He 
was  quite  unmoved  by  his  threats.  Not  a  day  passed  that 
Trenta  did  not  threaten  him  with  his  eternal  displeasure. 
Adonis  was  used  to  it,  and  bore  it  patiently.  He  bore  it 
because  he  could  not  help  it.  Although  by  no  means  over 
burdened  with  brains,  he  was  conscious  that  as  yet  he  was 
not  sufficiently  established  in  society  to  stand  alone.  Still, 
he  had  too  high  an  opinion  of  his  personal  beauty,  fine 
clothes,  and  general  merits,  to  believe  that  the  ladies  of 
Lucca  would  permit  of  his  banishment  by  any  arbitrary  de 
cree  of  the  cavaliere. 

"  You  had  better  find  out  the  truth,  cavaliere,"  he  mut 
tered,  keeping  well  out  of  the  range  of  Trenta's  stick,  "  be 
fore  you  put  yourself  in  such  a  passion." 

"  Domine  Dio  !  that  they  should  dare  to  utter  such 
abominations  ! "  ejaculated  the  cavaliere.  "  Why,  Enrica 
lives  the  life  of  a  nun  !  I  doubt  if  she  has  ever  seen  No- 
bili — certainly  she  has  never  spoken  to  him.  Let  Mala- 
testa,  and  the  young  scoundrels  at  the  club,  attack  the 
married  women.  They  can  defend  themselves.  But,  to 
calumniate  an  innocent  girl ! — it  is  horrible  ! — it  is  unman- 


112  THE  ITALIANS. 

ly  !  His  highness  the  Duke  of  Lucca  would  have  banished 
the  wretch  forthwith.  Ah  !  Italy  is  going  to  the  devil ! 
— Now,  Baldassare,"  he  continued,  turning  round  and  glar 
ing  upon  Adonis,  who  still  retreated  cautiously  before  him, 
"  I  have  a  great  mind  to  send  you  home.  Wfc  are  about, 
to  meet  the  young  lady  herself.  You  are  not  worthy  to 
be  in  her  company." 

"  I  only  repeated  what  Malatesta  told  me,"  urged  Bal 
dassare,  plaintively,  looking  very  blank.  "  I  am  not  an 
swerable  for  him.  Go  and  quarrel  with  Malatesta,  if  you 
like,  but  leare  me  alone.  You  asked  me  a  question,  and  I 
answered  you.  That  is  all." 

Baldassare  had  dressed  himself  with  great  care ;  his 
hair  was  exquisitely  curled  for  the  occasion.  He  had  noth 
ing  to  do  all  day,  and  the  prospect  of  returning  home  was 
most  depressing. 

"  You  are  not  answerable  for  being  born  a  fool !  "  was 
the  rejoinder.  "  I  grant  that.  Who  told  Malatesta  ?  " 
asked  the  cavaliere,  turning  sharply  toward  Baldassare. 

"  He  said  he  had  heard  it  in  many  quarters.  He  in 
sisted  on  having  heard  it  from  one  who  had  seen  them  to 
gether." 

(Old  Carlotta,  sitting  in  her  shop-door  at  the  corner  of 
the  street  of  San  Simone,  like  an  evil  spider  in  its  web, 
could  have  answered  that  question.) 

The  cavaliere  was  still  standing  on  the  same  spot,  in 
the  centre  of  the  street. 

"  Baldassare,"  he  said,  addressing  him  more  calmly, 
"this  is  a  wicked  calumny.  The  marchesa  must  not  hear 
it.  Upon  reflection,  I  shall  not  notice  it.  Malatesta  is  a 
chattering  fool — an  ape  !  I  dare  say  he  was  tipsy  when 
he  said  it.  But,  as  you  value  my  protection,  swear  to  me 
not  to  repeat  one  word  of  all  this.  If  you  hear  it  men 
tioned,  contradict  it — flatly  contradict  it,  on  my  authority — 
the  authority  of  the  Marchesa  Guinigi's  oldest  friend.  No- 


CALUMNY.  113 

bill  will  marry  Ncra  Boccarini,  and  there  will  be  an  end  of 
it ;  and  Enrica — yes,  Baldassare,"  continued  the  cavaliere, 
with  an  air  of  immense  dignity — "  yes,  to  prove  to  you  how 
ridiculous  this  report  is,  Enrica  is  about  to  marry  also.  I 
am  at  this  very  time  authorized  by  the  family  to  arrange 
an  alliance  with — " 

"  I  guess  !  "  burst  out  Baldassare,  reddening  with  da- 
light  at  being  intrusted  with  so  choice  a  piece  of  news — 
"  with  Count  Marcscotti ! "  Trenta  gave  a  conscious  smile, 
and  nodded.  This  was  done  with  a  certain  reserve,  but 
still  graciously.  "To  be  sure;  it  was  easy  to  see  how 
much  he  admired  her,  but  I  did  not  know  that  the  lady — " 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  lady  is  all  right — she  will  agree,"  rejoined 
Trenta.  "  She  knows  no  one  else ;  she  will  obey  her  aunt's 
commands  and  my  wishes." 

"  I  am  delighted  !  "  cried  Baldassare.  "  Why,  there 
will  be  a  ball  at  Palazzo  Guinigi — a  ball,  after  all ! " 

"  But  the  marchesa  must  never  hear  this  scandal  about 
Nobili,"  added  Trenta,  suddenly  relapsing  into  gravity. 
"  She  hates  him  so  much,  it  might  give  her  a  fit.  Have  a 
care,  Baldassare — have  a  care,  or  you  may  yet  incur  my 
severest  displeasure." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  the  marchesa  or  any  one  else 
to  know  it,"  replied  Baldassare,  greatly  reassured  as  to  the 
manner  in  which  he  would  pass  his  day  by  the  change  in 
Trenta's  manner.  "  I  would  not  annoy  her  or  injure  the 
signorina  for  all  the  world.  I  am  sure  you  know  that, 
cavaliere.  No  word  shall  pass  my  lips,  I  promise  you." 

"  Good  !  good  !  "  responded  Trenta,  now  quite  pacified 
(it  was  not  in  Trenta's  nature  to  be  angry  long).  Now  he 
moved  forward,  and  as  ho  did  so  he  took  Baldassare's  arm, 
in  token  of  forgiveness.  "  No  names  must  be  mentioned," 
he  continued,  tripping  along — "  mind,  no  names ;  but  I 
authorize  you,  on  my  authority,  if  you  hear  this  abominable 
nonsense  repeated — I  authorize  you  to  say  that  you  have 


114  THE  ITALIANS. 

it  from  me — that  Enrica  Guinigi  is  to  be  married,  and  not 
to  .Nobili.  He!  he!  That  will  surprise  them  —  those 
chattering  young  blackguards  at  the  club." 

Thus,  once  more  on  the  most  amiable  terms,  the  cava- 
liere  and  Baldassare  proceeded  leisurely  arm-in-arm  toward 
the  street  of  San  Simone. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CHURCH    OF   SAN   FKEDIASTO. 

Couxr  MARESCOTTT  was  walking  rapidly  up  and  down 
in  the  shade  before  the  Guinigi  Palace  when  the  cavaliere 
and  Baldassare  appeared.  He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts  that  he  did  not  perceive  them. 

"  I  must  speak  to  him  as  soon  as  possible  about  Enrica," 
was  Trenta's  thought  on  seeing  him.  "  With  this  report 
going  about,  there  is  not  an  hour  to  lose." 

"  You  have  kept  your  appointment  punctually,  count," 
he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  Marescotti's  shoulder. 

"  Punctual,  my  dear  cavaliere  ?  I  never  missed  an  ap 
pointment  in  my  life  when  made  with  a  lady.  I  was  up 
long  before  daylight,  looking  over  some  books  I  have  with 
me,  in  order  to  be  able  the  better  to  describe  any  object  of 
interest  to  the  Signorina  Enrica." 

"  An  opportunity  for  you,  my  boy,-"  said  Trenta,  nodding 
his  head  roguishly  at  Baldassare.  "  You  will  have  a  lesson 
in  Lucchese  history.  Of  course,  you  know  nothing  about 
it." 

"  Every  man  has  his  forte,"  observed  the  count,  good- 
naturedly,  seeing 'Baldassare's  embarrassment  at  having 
his  ignorance  exposed.  (The  cavaliere  never  could  leave 
poor  Adonis  alone.)  "  We  all  know  your  forte  is  the  ball 
room  ;  there  you  beat  us  all." 


116  THE  ITALIANS. 

"  Taught  by  me,  taught  by  me,"  muttered  the  cavaliere ; 
"  he  owes  it  all  to  me." 

Leaving  the  count  and  Baldassare  standing,  together  in 
the  street,  the  cavaliere  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  Guinigi 
Palace.  When  it  was  opened  he  entered  the  gloomy  court. 
Within  he  found  Enrica  and  Teresa  awaiting  his  arrival. 

At  the  sight  of  her  whom  he  so  much  loved,  and  of 
whom  he  had  just  heard  what  he  conceived  to  be  such  an 
atrocious  calumny,  the  cavaliere  was  quite  overcome.  Tears 
gathered  in  his  eyes ;  he  could  hardly  reply  to  her  when 
she  addressed  him. 

"  My  Enrica,"  he  said  at  last,  taking  her  by  the  hand 
and  imprinting  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead,  "  you  are  a  good 
child.  Heaven  bless  you,  and  keep  you  alwa3*s  as  you 
are  ! "  A  conscious  blush  overspread  Enrica's  face. 

"  If  he  knew  all,  would  he  say  this  ?  "  she  asked  herself; 
and  her  pretty  head  with  the  soft  curls  dropped  involun 
tarily. 

Enrica  was  very  simply  attired,  but  the  flowing  lines 
of  her  graceful  figure  were  not  to  be  disguised  by  any 
mere  accident  of  dress.  A  black  veil,  fastened  upon  her 
hair  like  a  mantilla  (a  style  much  affected  by  the  Lucca 
ladies),  fell  in  thick  folds  upon  her  shoulders,  and  partially 
shaded  her  face. 

Teresa  stood  by  her  young  mistress,  prepared  to  follow 
her.  Trenta  perceived  this.  He  did  not  like  Teresa.  If 
she  went  with  them,  the  whole  conversation  might  be  re 
peated  in  Casa  Guinigi.  This,  with  Count  Marescotti  in 
the  company,  would  be — to  say  the  least  of  it — incon 
venient. 

"  You  may  retire,"  he  said  to  Teresa.  "  I  will  take 
charge  of  the  signorina." 

"  But — Signore  Cavaliere  " — and  Teresa,  feeling  the  af 
front,  colored  scarlet — "the  marchesa's  positive  orders 
were,  I  was  not  to  leave  the  signorina." 


CHURCH  OF  SAN  FREDIANO.  117 

"  Never  mind,"  answered  the  cavaliere,  authoritatively, 
"  I  will  take  that  on  myself.  You  can  retire." 

Teresa,  swelling  with  anger,  remained  in  the  court. 
The  cavaliere  offered  his  arm  to  Enrica.  She  turned  and 
addressed  a  few  words  to  the  exasperated  Teresa ;  then, 
led  by  Trenta,  she  passed  into  the  street.  Upon  the  thresh 
old,  Count  Marescotti  met  them. 

"  This  is  indeed  an  honor,"  he  said,  addressing  Enrica 
— his  face  beamed,  and  he  bowed  to  the  ground.  "  I 
trembled  lest  the  marchesa  should  have  forbidden  your 
coming." 

"  So  did  I,"  answered  Enrica,  frankly.  "  I  am  so  glad. 
I  fear  that  my  aunt  is  not  altogether  pleased  ;  but  she  has 
said  nothing,  and  I  came." 

She  spoke  with  such  eagerness,  she  saw  that  the  count 
was  surprised.  This  made  her  blush.  At  any  other  time 
such  an  expedition  as  that  they  were  about  to  make  would 
have  been  delightful  to  her  for  its  own  sake,  Enrica  was 
so  shut  up  within  the  palace,  except  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  she  accompanied  Teresa  to  mass,  or  took  a  formal 
drive  on  the  ramparts  at  sundown  with  her  aunt.  But 
now  she  was  full  of  anxiety  about  Nobili.  They  had  not 
met  for  a  week — he  had  not  written  to  her  even.  Should 
she  see  him  in  the  street  ?  Should  she  see  him  from  the 
top  of  the  tower  ?  Perhaps  he  was  at  home  at  that  very 
moment  watching  her.  She  gave  a  furtive  glance  upward 
at  the  stern  old  palace  before  her.  The  thick  walls  of  sun- 
dried  bricks  looked  cruel ;  the  massive  Venetian  casements 
mocked  her.  The  outer  blinds  shut  out  all  hope.  Alas  ! 
there  was  not  a  chink  anywhere.  Even  the  great  doors 
were  closed. 

"  Ah !  if  Teresa  could  have  warned  him  that  I  was 
coming  !  " — and  she  gave  a  great  sigh.  "  If  he  only  knew 
that  I  was  here,  standing  in  the  very  street !  Oh,  for  one 
glimpse  of  his  dear,  bright  face  ! " 


118  THE  ITALIANS. 

Again  Enrica  sighed,  and  again  she  gazed  up  wistfully 
at  the  closed  facade. 

Meanwhile  the  cavaliere  and  Baldassare  were  engaged 
in  a  violent  altercation.  Baldassare  had  proposed  walking 
to  the  church  of  San  Frediano,  which,  in  consideration  of 
the  cavaliere's  wishes,  they  were  to  visit  first.  "  No  one 
would  think  of  driving  such  a  short  distance,"  he  in 
sisted.  "  The'sun  was  not  hot,  and  the  streets  were  all  in 
shade."  The  cavaliere  retorted  that  "  it  was  too  hot  for 
any  lady  to  walk,"  swung  his  stick  menacingly  in  the  air, 
called  Baldassare  "  an  imbecile,"  and  peremptorily  ordered 
him  to  call  a.  fiacre.  Baldassare  turned  scarlet  in  the  face, 
and  rudely  refused  to  move. 

"  He  was  not  a  servant,"  he  said.  "  He  would  do  noth 
ing  unless  treated  like  a  gentleman." 

This  was  spoken  as  he  hurled  what  he  intended  to  be 
a  tremendous  glance  of  indignation  at  the  cavaliere.  It 
produced  no  effect  whatever.  With  an  exasperating  smile, 
the  cavaliere  again  desired  Baldassare  to  do  as  he  was  bid, 
or  else  to  go  home.  The  count  interposed,  a  fiacre  was 
called,  in  which  they  all  seated  themselves. 

San  Frediano,  a  basilica  in  the  Lombard  style,  is  the 
most  ancient  church  in  Lucca.  The  mid-day  sun  now 
flashed  full  upon  the  front,  and  lighted  up  the  wondrous 
colors  of  a  mosaic  on  a  gold  ground,  over  the  entrance. 
At  one  corner  of  the  building  a  marble  campanile,  formed 
by  successive  tiers  of  delicate  arcades,  springs  upward  into 
the  azure  sky.  Flocks  of  gray  pigeons  circled  about  the 
upper  gallery  (where  hang  the  bells),  or  rested,  cooing 
•softly  in  the  warm  air,  upon  the  sculptured  cornice  border 
ing  the  white  arches.  It  was  a  quiet  scene  of  tranquil 
beauty,  significant  of  repose  in  life  and  of  peace  in  death — 
the  church,  with  its  wide  portals,  offering  an  everlasting 
home  to  all  Avho  sought  shelter  within  its  walls. 


CHURCH  OF  SAN  FKEDIANO.  119 

The  cavaliere  was  so  impatient  to  do  the  honors  that 
he  actually  jumped  unaided  from  the  carriage. 

"  This,  dear  Enrica,  is  my  parish  church,"  he  said,  as 
he  handed  her  out,  pointing  upward  to  the  richly-tinted 
pile,  which  the  suns  of  many  centuries  had  dyed  of  a  gold 
en  hue.  "  I  know  every  stone  in  the  building.  From  a 
child  I  have  played  in  this  piazza,  under  these  venerable 
walls.  My  earliest  prayers  were  said  at  the  altar  of  the 
Sacrament  within.  Here  I  confessed  my  youthful  sins. 
Here  I  received  my  first  communion.  Here  I  hope  to  lay 
my  bones,  when  it  shall  please  God  to  call  me." 

Trenta  spoke  with  a  tranquil  smile.  It  was  clear 
neither  life  nor  death  had  any  terrors  for  him.  "  The  very 
pigeons  know  me,"  he  added,  placidly.  He  looked  up  to 
the  campanile,  gave  a  peculiar  whistle,  and,  putting  his 
hand  into  his  pocket,  threw  down  some  grains  of  corn  upon 
the  pavement.  The  pigeons,  whirling  round  in  many  cir 
cles  (the  sunlight  flashing  upon  their  burnished  breasts, 
and  upon  the  soft  gray  and  purple  feathers  of  their  wings), 
gradually — in  little  groups  of  twos  and  threes-^-flew  down, 
and  finally  settled  themselves  in  a  knot  upon  the  pavement, 
to  peck  up  the  corn. 

"  Good,  pious  old  man,  how  I  honor  you  !"  ejaculated 
Count  Marescotti,  fervently,  as  he  watched  the  timid  gray- 
coated  pigeons  gathering  round  the  cavaliere's  feet,  as  he 
stood  apart  from  the  rest,  serenely  smiling  as  he  fed  them. 
"  May  thy  placid  spirit  be  unruffled  in  time  and  in  eter 
nity  !  " 

The  interior  of  the  church,  in  the  Longobardic  style,  is 
bare  almost  to  plainness.  On  entering,  the  eye  ranges 
through  a  long  broad  nave  with  rounded  arches,  the  arches 
surmounted  by  narrow  windows ;  these  dividing  arches, 
supported  on  single  columns  with  monumental  capitals, 
forming  two  dark  and  rather  narrow  aisles.  The  high 
altar  is  raised  on  three  broad  steps.  Here  burn  a  few 


120  THE  ITALIANS. 

lights,  dimmed  into  solitary  specks  by  the  brightness  of 
the  sun.  The  walls  on  either  side  of  the  aisles  are  broken 
by  various  chapels.  These  lie  in  deep  shadow.  The  roof, 
formed  of  open  rafters,  bearing  marks  of  having  once  been 
elaborately  gilded,  is  now  but  a  mass  of  blackened  timbers. 
The  floor  is  of  brick,  save  where  oft-recurring  sepulchral 
slabs  are  cut  into  the  surface.  These  slabs,  of  black-and- 
white  marble,  or  of  alabaster  stained  and  worn  from  its  na 
tive  whiteness  into  a  dingy  brown,  are  almost  obliterated 
by  the  many  footsteps  which  have  come  and  gone  upon 
them  for  so  many  centuries.  Not  a  single  name  remains 
to  record  whom  they  commemorate.  "  Dimly  seen  under  a 
covering  of  dirt  and  dust  deposited  by  the  living,  lie  the 
records  of  these  unknown  dead :  here  a  black  lion  rampant 
on  a  white  shield ;  there  a  coat-of-arms  on  an  escutcheon, 
with  the  fragment  of  a  princely  coronet ;  beyond,  a  life- 
sized  monk,  his  shadowy  head  resting  on  a  cushion — a 
matron  with  her  robes  soberly  gathered  about  her  feet,  her 
hands  crossed  on  her  bosom — a  bishop,  under  a  painted 
canopy,  mj±re  on  head  and  staff  in  hand — a  warrior,  grimly 
helmeted,  carrying  his  drawn  sword  in  his  hand.  Who 
are  these?  Whence  came  they  ?  None 'can  tell. 

Beside  one  of  the  most  worn  and  defaced  of  these  slabs 
the  cavaliere  stopped. 

"  On  this  stone,"  he  said,  his  smiling  countenance  sud 
denly  grown  solemn — "  on  this  very  stone,  where  you  see 
the  remains  of  a  mosaic  " — and  he  pointed  to  some  morsels 
of  color  still  visible,  crossing  himself  as  he  did  so — "  a  no 
table  miracle  was  performed.  Before  I  relate  it,  let  us 
adore  the  goodness  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  from  whom-  all 
good  gifts  come." 

Cavaliere  Trenta  was  on  his  knees  before  he  had  done 
speaking  ;  again  he  fervently  crossed  himself,  reciting  the 
"  Maria  Santissima."  Enrica  bowed  her  head,  and  timidly 
knelt  beside  him ;  Baldassare  bent  his  knees,  but,  remem- 


CHURCH   OF  SAN  FREDIANO.  121 

bering  that  Iris  trousers  were  new,  and  that  they  might 
take  an  adverse  crease  that  could  never  be  ironed  out, 
he  did  not  allow  himself  to  touch  the  floor ;  then,  with 
open  eyes  and  ears,  he  rose  and  stood  waiting  for  the  cava- 
liere  to  proceed.  Baldassare  was  uneducated  and  supersti 
tious.  The  latter  quality  recommended  him  strongly  to 
Trenta.  He  was  always  ready  to  believe  every  word  the 
cavaliere  uttered  with  unquestioning  faith.  At  the  men 
tion  of  a  church  legend  Count  Marescotti  turned  away  with 
an  expression  of  disgust,  and  leaned  against  a  pillar,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Enrica. 

The  cavaliere,  having  risen  from  his  knees,  and  carefully 
dusted  himself  with  a  snowy  pocket-handkerchief,  took 
Enrica  by  the  hand,  and  placed  her  in  such  a  position  that 
the  sunshine,  striking  through  the  windows  of  the  nave, 
fell  full  upon  the  monumental  stone  before  them. 

"  My  Enrica,"  he  said,  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  and  you, 
Baldassare" — he  motioned  to  him  to  approach  nearer — 
"  you  are  both  young.  Listen  to  me.  Lay  to  heart  what 
an  old  man  tells  you.  Such  a  miracle  as  I  am  about  to  re 
late  must  touch  even  the  count's  hard  heart." 

He  glanced  round  at  Marescotti,  but  it  was  evident  he 
was  chagrined  by  what  he  saw.  Marescotti  neither  heard 
him,  nor  even  affected  to  do  so.  Trenta's  voice  in  the  great 
church  was  weak  and  piping — indistinct  even  to  those  bo- 
side  him.  Finding  the  count  unavailable  either  for  instruc 
tion  or  reproof,  the  cavaliere  shook  his  head,  and  his  counte 
nance  fell.  Then  he  turned  his  mild  blue  eyes  upon  Enrica, 
leaned  upon  his  stick,  and  commenced : 

"  In  the  sixth  century,  the  flag-stones  in  this  portion  of 
the  nave  were  raised  for  the  burial  of  a  distinguished  lady, 
a  member  of  the  Manzi  family  ;  but  oh  !  stupendous  prodi 
gy  ! " — the  cavaliere  cast  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  clasped 
his  dimpled  hands — "  no  sooner  had  the  coffin  been  lowered 
into  the  vault  prepared  for  it,  than  the  corpse  of  the  lady 
6 


122  THE   ITALIANS. 

of  the  Manzi  family  sat  upright  in  the  open  Bier,  put  aside 
the  flowers  and  wreaths  piled  upon  her,  and  uttered  these 
memorable  and  never-to-be-forgotten  words :  '  Bury  me 
elsewhere ;  here  lies  the  body  of  San  Frediano.' " 

Baldassare,  who  had  grown  very  pale,  now  shuddered 
visibly,  and  contemplated  the  cavaliere  with  awe. 

"  Stupendous !  "  he  muttered  —  "  prodigious  !  —  In 
deed!" 

Enrica  did  not  speak  ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  may  well  say  prodigious,"  responded 
Trenta,  bowing  his  white  head ;  then,  looking  round  tri 
umphantly  :  "  It  was  prodigious,  but  a  prodigy,  remember, 
vouched  for  by  the  chronicles  of  the  Church.  (Chronicles 
of  the  Church  are  much  more  to  be  trusted  than  any  thing 
else,  much  more  than  Evangelists,  who  were  not  bishops, 
and  therefore  had  no  authority — we  all  know  that.)  No 
sooner,  my  friends,  had  the  corpse  of  the  lady  of  the  Manzi 
family  spoken,  as  I  have  said,  than  diligent  search  was 
made  by  those  assembled  in  the  church,  when  lo ! — within 
the  open  vault  the  remains  of  the  adorable  San  Frediano 
were  discovered  in  excellent  preservation.  I  need  not  say 
that,  having  died  in  the  odor  of  sanctity,  the  most  fragrant 
perfume  filled  the  church,  and  penetrated  even  to  the  adja 
cent  streets.  Several  sick  persons  were  healed  by  merely 
inhaling  it.  One  man,  whose  arm  had  been  shot  off  at  the 
shoulder-joint  many  years  before,  found  lu's  limb  come  again 
in  an  instant,  by  merely  touching  the  blessed  relic."  The 
cavaliere  paused  to  take  breath.  No  one  had  spoken. — 
"  Have  you  heard  the  miracle  of  the  glorious  San  Fre 
diano  ?  "  asked  Trenta,  a  little  timidly,  raising  his  voice  to 
its  utmost  pitch  as  he  addressed  Count  Marescotti. 

"  No,  I  have  not,  cavaliere  ;  but,  if  I  had,  it  would  not 
alter  my  opinion.  I  do  not  believe  in  mediaeval  miracles." 
As  he  spoke,  Count  Marescotti  turned  round  from  the  steps 
of  a  side-altar,  whither  he  had  wandered  to  look  at  a  pict- 


CHURCH   OF  SAN  FREDIANO.  123 

ure.  "  I  did  not  hear  one  word  you  said,  my  dear  cava- 
liere,  but  I  am  acquainted  with  the  supposed  miracles  of 
San  Frediano.  They  are  entirely  without  evidence,  and  in 
no  way  shake  my  conclusions  as  to  the  utter  wortblessness 
of  such  legends.  In  this  I  agree  with  the  Protestants,"  he 
continued,  "  rather  than  with  that  inspired  teacher,  Savo 
narola.  The  Protestants,  spite  of  so-called  'ecclesiastical 
authority,'  persist  in  denying  them.  With  the  Protestants, 
I  hold  that  the  entire  machinery  of  modern  miracles  is  false 
and  unprofitable.  With  the  Apostles  miraculous  power 
ended." 

"  Marescotti !  "  ejaculated  the  poor  cavaliere,  aghast  at 
the  effect  his  appeal  had  produced,  "  for  God's  sake,  don't, 
don't !  before  Enrica — and  in  a  church,  too  ! " 

"  I  believe  with  Savonarola  in  other  miracles,"  con 
tinued  the  count,  in  a  louder  tone,  addressing  himself  di 
rectly  to  Enrica,  on  whom  he  gazed  with  a  tender  expres 
sion — he  was  far  too  much  engrossed  with  her  and  with 
the  subject  to  heed  Trenta's  feeble  remonstrance — "  I  be 
lieve  in  the  mystic  essence  of  soul  to  soul — I  believe  in  the 
reappearance  of  the  disembodied  spirit  to  its  kindred  affinity 
still  on  earth — still  clothed  with  a  fleshly  garment.  I  be 
lieve  in  those  magnetic  influences  that  circle  like  an  atmos 
phere  about  certain  purified  and  special  natures,  binding 
them  together  in  a  closely -locked  embrace,  an  embrace  that 
neither  time,  distance,  nor  even  death  itself,  can  weaken  or 
sever ! " 

He  paused  for  an  instant ;  a  dark  fire  lit  up  his  eyes, 
which  were  still  bent  on  Enrica. 

"All  this  I  believe — life  would  be  intolerable  to  me 
without  such  convictions.  At  the  same  time,  I  am  ready 
to  grant  that  all  cannot  accept  my  views.  These  are 
mysteries  to  be  approached  without  prejudice — mysteries 
that  must  be  received  absolutely  without  prejudice  of 
religion,  country,  or  race ;  received  as  the  aesthetic  in- 


124  THE  ITALIANS. 

stinct  within  us  teaches.  Who,"  he  added,  and  as  he  spoke 
he  stood  erect  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  his  arms  out 
stretched  in  the  eagerness  of  argument,  his  grand  face  all 
aglow  with  enthusiasm — "  who  can  decide  ?  It  is  faith 
that  convinces — faith  that  vivifies — faith  that  transforms — 
faith  that  links  us  to  the  hierarchy  of  angels  !  To  believe 
— to  act  on  our  belief,  even  if  that  belief  be  false — that  is  true 
religion.  A  merciful  Deity  will  accept  our  imperfect  sacri 
fice.  Are  we  not  all  believers  in  Christ?  Away  with 
creeds  and  churches,  with  formularies  and  doctrines,  with 
painted  walls  and  golden  altars,  with  stoled  priests,  infalli 
ble  popes,  and  temporal  hierarchies  !  What  are  these  vain 
distinctions,  if  we  love  God  ?  Let  the  whole  world  unite 
to  believe  in  the  Redeemer.  Then  we  shall  all  be  brothers 
— you,  I — all,  brothers — joined  within  the  holy  circle  of 
one  universal  family — of  one  universal  worship  ! " 

Count  Marescotti  ceased  speaking,  but  his  impassioned 
words  still  echoed  through  the  empty  aisles.  His  eyes  had 
wandered  from  Enrica ;  they  were  now  fixed  on  high.  His 
countenance  glowed  with  rapture.  Wrapped  in  the  visions 
his  imagination  had  called  forth,  he  descended  from  the 
altar,  and  slowly  approached  the  silent  group  gathered  be 
side  the  monumental  stone. 

Enrica  had  eagerly  drunk  in  every  word  the  count  had 
uttered.  He  seemed  to  speak  the  language  of  her  secret 
musings ;  to  interpret  the  hidden  mysteries  of  her  young 
heart.  She,  at  least,  believed  in  the  affinity  of  kindred 
spirits.  What  but  that  had  linked  her  to  Nobili  ?  Oh,  to 
live  in  such  a  union  ! 

Trenta  had  become  very  grave. 

"  You  are  a  visionary,"  he  said,  addressing  the  count, 
who  now  stood  beside  them.  "  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Such  a 
consummation  as  you  desire  is  impossible.  Your  faith  has 
no  foundation.  It  is  a  creation  of  the  brain.  The  Catholic 
Church  stands  upon  a  rock.  It  permits  no  change,  it  ac- 


CHURCH  OF  SAN  FI1EDIANO.  125 

cepts  no  compromise, .it- admits  no  errors.  The  authority 
given  to  St.  Peter  by  Jesus  Christ  himself,  with  the  spirit 
ual  keys,  can  alone  open  the  gates  of  heaven.  All  without 
are  damned.  Good  intentions  are  nothing.  Private  inter 
pretation,  believe  me,  is  of  the  devil.  Obedience  to  the 
Holy  Father,  and  the  intercession  of  the  saints,  can  alone 
save  your  soul.  Submit  yourself  to  the  teaching  of  our 
mother  Church,  my  dear  count.  Submit  yourself — you 
have  my  prayers."  Trenta  watched  Marescotti  with  a 
fixed  gaze  of  such  solemn  earnestness,  it  seemed  as  though 
he  anticipated  that  the  blessed  San  Frediano  himself  might 
appear,  and  then  and  there  miraculously  convert  him. 
"  Submit  yourself,"  he  repeated,  raising  his  arm  and  point 
ing  to  the  altar,  "  then  you  will  be  blest." 

No  miraculous  interposition,  however,  was  destined  to 
crown  the  poor  cavaliere's  strenuous  efforts  to  convert  the 
heretical  count ;  but,  long  before  he  had  finished,  the  sound 
of  his  voice  had  recalled  Count  Marescotti  to  himself.  He 
remembered  that  the  old  chamberlain  belonged,  in  years  at 
least,  if  not  in  belief,  to  the  past.  He  blamed  himself  for 
his  thoughtlessness  in  having  said  a  syllable  that  could 
give  him  pain.  The  mystic  disciple  of  Savonarola  became 
in  an  instant  the  polished  gentleman. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  Trenta,"  he  said,  pass 
ing  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  and  putting  back  the  dark, 
disordered  hair  that  hung  upon  his  brow — "a  thousand 
pardons  ! — I  am  quite  ashamed  of  myself.  We  are  here,  as 
I  now  remember,  to  examine  the  tombs  of  your  ancestors 
in  the  chapel  of  the  Trenta.  I  have  delayed  you  too  long. 
Shall  we  proceed  ?  " 

Trenta,  glad  to  escape  from  the  possibility  of  any  fur 
ther  discussion  with  the  count,  whose  religious  views  were 
to  him  nothing  but  the  ravings  of  a  mischievous  maniac, 
at  once  turned  into  the  side-aisle,  and,  with  ceremonious  po 
liteness,  conducted  Enrica  toward  the  chapel  of  the  Trenta. 


126  THE   ITALIANS. 

The  chapel,  divided  by  gates  of  gilt  bronze  from  the  line 
of  the  other  altars  bordering  the  aisles,  forms  a  deep  recess 
near  the  high  altar.  The  walls  are  inlaid  by  what  had  once 
been  brilliantly-colored  marbles,  in  squares  of  red,  green, 
and  yellow  ;  but  time  and  damp  had  dulled  them  into  a 
sombre  hue.  Above,  a  heavy  circular  cornice  joins  a  dome- 
shaped  roof,  clothed  with  frescoes,  through  which  the  light 
descends  through  a  central  lantern.  Painted  figures  of 
prophets  stand  erect  within  the  four  spandrils,  and  beneath, 
breaking  the  marble  walls,  four  snow-white  statues  of  the 
Evangelists  fill  lofty  niches  of  gray-tinted  stone.  Opposite 
the  gilded  gates  of  entrance  which  Trenta  had  unlocked,  a 
black  sarcophagus  projects  from  the  wall.  This  sarcopha 
gus  is  surmounted  by  a  carved  head.  Many  other  monu 
ments  break  the  marble  walls ;  some  very  ancient,  others 
of  more  recent  shape  and  construction.  The  floor,  too,  is 
almost  entirely  overlaid  by  tombstones,  but,  like  those  in 
the  nave,  they  are  greatly  defaced,  and  the  inscriptions  are 
for  the  most  part  illegible.  Over  the  altar  a  blackened 
painting  represents  "  San  Riccardo  of  the  Trenta  "  battling 
with  the  infidels  before  Jerusalem. 

"  Here,"  said  the  cavaliere,  standing  in  the  centre  under 
the  dome,  "  is  the  chapel  of  the  Trenta.  Here  I,  Cesare 
Trenta,  fourteenth  in  succession  from  Gualtiero  Trenta — • 
who  commanded  a  regiment  at  the  battle  of  Marignano 
against  the  French  under  Francis  I. — hope  to  lay  my  bones. 
The  altar,  as  you  see,  is  sanctified  by  the  possession  of  an 
ancestral  picture,  deemed  miraculous."  He  bowed  to  the 
earth  as  he  spoke,  in  which  example  he  was  followed  by 
Enrica  and  Baldassare.  "  San  Riccardo  was  the  compan 
ion-in-arms  of  Godfrey  de  Bouillon.  His  bones  lie  under 
the  altar.  Upon  his  return  from  the  crusades  he  died  in 
our  palace.  We  still  show  the  very  room.  His  body  is 
quite  entire  within  that  tomb.  I  have  seen  it  myself  when 
•a  boy." 


CHURCH  OF  SAN  FREDIANO.  127 

Even  the  count  did  not  venture  to  raise  any  doubt  as  to 
the  authenticity  of  the  patron  saint  of  the  Trenta  family. 
The  cavaliere  himself  was  on  his  knees  ;  rosary  in  hand,  he 
was  devoutly  offering  up  his  innocent  prayers  to  the  ashes 
of  an  imaginary  saint.  After  many  crossings,  bowings,  and 
touchings  of  the  tomb  (always  kissing  the  fingers  that  had 
been  in  contact  with  the  sanctified  stone),  he  arose,  smil 
ing. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  count,  turning  toward  Enrica,  "  I 
will  ask  leave  to  show  you  another  tomb,  which  may,  possi 
bly,  interest  you  more  than  the  sepulchre  of  the  respected 
Trenta."  As  he  spoke  he  led  her  to  the  opposite  aisle,  tow 
ard  a  sarcophagus  of  black  marble  placed  under  an  arch, 
on  which  was  inscribed,  in  gilt  letters,  the  name  "  Castruc- 
cio  Castracani  degli  Antimelli,"  and  the  date  "  1328." 
"  Had  our  Castruccio  moved  in  a  larger  sphere,"  said  the 
count,  addressing  the  little  group  that  had  now  gathered 
about  him,  "he  would  have  won  a  name  as  great  as  that 
of  Alexander  of  Macedon.  Like  Alexander,  he  died  in  the 
flower  of  his  age,  in  the  height  of  his  fame.  Had  he  lived, 
he  would  have  been  King  of  Italy,  and  Lucca  would  have 
become  the  capital  of  the  peninsula.  Chaste,  sober,  and 
merciful — brave  without  rashness,  and  prudent  without  fear 
— Castruccio  won  all  hearts.  Lucca  at  least  appreciated  her 
hero.  Proud  alike  of  his  personal  qualities,  and  of  those 
warlike  exploits  with  which  Italy  already  rang,  she  unani 
mously  elected  him  dictator.  When  this  signal  honor  was 
conferred  upon  him,"  continued  the  count,  addressing  him 
self  again  specially  to  Enrica,  who  listened,  her  large 
dreamy  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  "  Castruccio  was  absent,  en 
gaged  in  one  of  those  perpetual  campaigns  against  Florence 
which  occupied  so  large  a  portion  of  his  short  life.  At  that 
very  moment  he  was  encamped  on  the  heights  of  San  Mi- 
niato,  preparing  to  besiege  the  hated  rival  of  our  city — 
broken  and  reduced  by  the  recent  victory  he  had  gained 


128  THE   ITALIANS. 

over  her  at  Altopasso.  At  Altopasso  he  had  defeated  and 
humiliated  Florence.  Now  he  had  planted  our  flag  under 
her  very  walls.  Upon  the  arrival  of  the  embassadors  sent 
by  the  Lucchese  Republic — one  of  whom  was  a  Guinigi — "  ' 

"  There  was  a  Trenta,  too,  among  them ;  Antonio  Trenta, 
a  knight  of  St.  John,"  put  in  the  cavaliere,  gently,  unwilling 
to  interrupt  the  count,  but  finding  it  impossible  to  resist 
the  temptation  of  identifying  his  family  with  his  country's 
triumphs.  The  count  acknowledged  the  omission  with  a 
courteous  bow. 

"  Upon  the  arrival  of  the  embassadors,"  he  resumed, 
"  announcing  the  honor  conferred  upon  him,  Castruccio  in 
stantly  left  his  camp,  and  returned  with  all  haste  to  Lucca. 
The  dignity  accorded  to  Castruccio  exalted  him  above  all 
external  demonstration,  but  he  understood  that  his  native 
city  longed  to  behold,  and  to  surround  with  personal  ap 
plause,  the  person  of  her  idol.  In  the  piazza  without  this 
church,  the  very  centre  of  Lucca,  the  heart,  as  it  were, 
whence  all  the  veins  and  arteries  of  our  municipal  body 
flow,  Castruccio  was  received  with  all  the  pomp  of  a  Roman 
triumph.  Ah !  cavaliere" — and  the  count's  lustrous  eyes 
rested  on  Trenta,  who  was  devouring  every  word  he  uttered 
with  silent  delight — "  those  were  proud  days  for  Lucca  !  " 

"  Recall  them — recall  them,  O  Count !  "  cried  Trenta. 
"  It  does  me  good  to  listen." 

"  Thirty  thousand  Florentine  prisoners  followed  Cas 
truccio  to  Lucca.  His  soldiers  were  laden  with  booty. 
They  drove  before  them  innumerable  herds  of  cattle ; 
strings  of  wagons,  filled  with  the  spoils  of  a  victorious  cam 
paign,  blocked  the  causeways.  Last  of  all  appeared,  rum 
bling  on  its  ancient  wheels,  the  carroccio,  or  state-car  of  the 
Florentine  Republic,  bearing  their  captured  flags  lowered, 
and  trailing  in  the  dust.  Castruccio — whose  sole  represent 
atives  are  the  Marchesa  Guinigi  and  yourself,  signorina — 
Castruccio  followed.  He  was  seated  in  a  triumphal  chariot, 


CHURCH   OF  SAN  FEEDIANO.  129 

drawn  by  eight  milk-white  horses.  Banners  fluttered 
around  him.  A  golden  crown  of  victory  was  suspended 
above  his  head.  He  was  arrayed  in  a  flowing  mantle  of 
purple,  over  a  suit  of  burnished  armor.  His  brows  were 
bound  by  a  wreath  of  golden  laurel.  In  his  right  hand  he 
carried  a  jeweled  sceptre.  Upon  his  knees  lay  his  victo 
rious  sword  unsheathed.  Never  was  manly  beauty  more 
transcendent.  His  lofty  stature  and  majestic  bearing  ful 
filled  the  expectation  of  a  hero.  How  can  I  describe  his 
features  ?  They  are  known  to  all  of  you  by  that  famous 
picture  (the  only  likeness  of  him  extant)  belonging  to  the 
Marchesa  Guinigi,  placed  in  the  presence-chamber  of  her 
palace." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  burst  forth  Trenta,  no  longer  able  to  con 
trol  his  enthusiasm.  "  Old  as  I  am,  when  I  think  of  those 
days,  it  makes  me  young  again.  Alas  1  what  a  change ! 
Now  we  have  lost  not  only  our  independence,  but  our  very 
indentity.  Our  sovereign  is  gone — banished — our  state 
broken  up.  "We  are  but  the  slaves  of  a  monster  called  the 
kingdom  of  Italy,  ruled  by  Piedmontese  barbarians ! " 

"  Hush  ! — hush  ! "  whispered  the  irrepressible  Baldas- 
sare.  "Pray  do  not  interrupt  the  count."  Even  the 
stolid  Adonis  was  moved. 

"  The  daughters  of  the  noblest  houses  of  Lucca,"  con 
tinued  Marescotti,  "  strewed  flowers  in  Castruccio's  path. 
The  magistrates  and  nobles  received  him.  on  their  knees. 
Young  as  he  was,  with  one  voice  they  saluted  him  'Father 
of  his  Country  ! '  " 

The  count  paused.  He  bowed  his  head  toward  the 
sarcophagus  before  which  they  were  gathered,  in  a  mute 
tribute  of  reverence.  After  a  few  minutes  of  rapt  silence 
he  resumed : 

"  When  the  multitude  heard  that  name,  ten  thousand 
thousand  voices  echoed  it.  '  Father  of  his  Country ! '  re 
sounded  to  the  summits  of  the  surrounding  Apennines. 


130  THE  ITALIANS. 

The  mountain-tops  tossed  it  to  and  fro — the  caves  thun 
dered  it — the  very  heavens  bore  it  aloft  to  distan-t  hemi 
spheres  !  Our  great  soldier,  overcome  by  such  overwhelm 
ing  marks  of  affection,  expressed  in  every  look  and  gesture 
how  deeply  he  was  moved.  Before  leaving  the  piazza, 
Castruccio  was  joined  by  his  relative,  young  Paolo  Gui- 
nigi ! — after  his  decease  to  become  dictator,  and  Lord  of 
Lucca.  Amid  the  clash  of  arms,  the  brayings  of  trumpets, 
and  the  applause  of  thousands,  they  cordially  embraced. 
They  were  fast  friends  as  well  as  cousins.  Our  Castruccio 
was  of  a  type  incapable  of  jealousy.  Paolo  was  a  pa 
triot — that  was  enough.  Together  they  proceeded  to  the 
cathedral  of  San  Martino.  At  the  porch  Castruccio  was 
received  by  the  archbishop  and  the  assembled  clergy.  He 
was  placed  hi  a  chair  of  carved  ivory,  and  carried  in  triumph 
up  the  nave  to  the  chapel  of  the  Holy  Countenance.  Here 
he  descended,  and,  while  he  prostrated  himself  before  the 
miraculous  image,  hymns  and  songs  of  praise  burst  from 
the  choir. 

"  Such,  Signorina  Enrica,"  said  the  count,  turning 
toward  her,  "is  a  brief  outline  of  the  scene  that  passed 
within  this  city  of  Lucca,  before  that  tomb  held  the  illus 
trious  dust  it  now  contains." 

"  Bravo,  bravo,  count !  "  exclaimed  the  mercurial  Tren- 
ta,  in  a  delighted  tone.  (He  was  ready  to  forgive  all  the 
count's  transgressions,  in  the  fervor  of  the  moment.) 
"  That  is  how  I  love  to  hear  you  talk.  Now  you  do  your 
self  justice.  Gesu  mio !  how  seldom  it  is  given  to  a  man 
to  be  so  eloquent !  How  can  he  bring  himself  to  employ 
such  gifts  against  the  infallible  Church  ?  "  This  last  remark 
was  addressed  to  Enrica  in  a  tone  too  low  to  be  overheard. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  old  chamberlain,  always  on  the 
lookout  to  marshal  every  one  as  he  had  marshaled  every 
one  at  court — "now  we  will  leave  the  church,  and  proceed 
to  the  Guinigi  Tower." 


CHAPTER  III. 

TUB   GTJINIGI   TOWEK. 

COUNT  MARESCOTTI,  by  reason  of  too  much  imagina 
tion,  and  Baldassare,  by  reason  of  too  little,  were  both 
oblivious ;  consequently  the  key  and  the  porter  were  nei 
ther  of  them  forthcoming  when  the  party  arrived  at  the 
door  of  the  tower,  which  opened  from  a  side-street  behind 
and  apart  from  the  palace.  Both  the  count  and  Baldas 
sare  ran  off  to  find  the  man,  leaving  Trenta  alone  with 
Enrica. 

"  Ahi ! "  exclaimed  the  cavaliere,  looking  after  them 
with  a  comical  smile,  "  this  youth  of  New  Italy !  They 
have  no  more  brains  than  a  pin.  When  I  was  young,  and 
every  city  had  its  own  ruler  and  its  own  court,  I  should  not 
have  escorted  a  lady  and  kept  her  waiting  outside  in  the 
sun.  Bah !  those  were  not  the  manners  of  my  day.  At 
the  court  of  the  Duke  of  Lucca  ladies  were  treated  like 
divinities,  but  now  the  young  men  don't  know  how  to  kiss 
a  woman's  hand." 

Receiving  no  answer,  Trenta  looked  hard  at  Enrica. 
He  was  struck  by  her  absent  expression.  There  was  a  far 
away  look  on  her  face  he  had  never  noticed  on  it  before. 

"Enrica,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands  within  his 
own,  "  I  fear  you  are  not  amused.  These  subjects  are  too 
grave  to  interest  you.  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 


132  THE  ITALIANS. 

An  anxious  look  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  glanced 
hastily  round,  as  if  to  assure,  herself  that  no  one  was  near. 

"  Oh !  I  am  thinking  of  such  strange  things  ! "  She 
stopped  and  hesitated,  seeing  the  cavaliere's  glance  of  sur 
prise.  "I  should  like  to  tell  you  all,  dear  cavaliere — I 
would  give  the  world  to  tell  you — " 

Again  she  stopped. 

"  Speak — speak,  my  child,"  he  answered ;  "  tell  me  all 
that  is  in  your  mind." 

Before  she  could  reply,  the  count  and  Baldassare  reap 
peared,  accompanied  by  the  porter  of  the  Guinigi  Palace 
and  the  keys. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  would  rather  not  return  home  again, 
Enrica?  You  have  only  to  turn  the  corner,  remember," 
asked  Trenta,  looking  at  her  with  anxious  affection. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered,  greatly  confused ;  "  please 
say  nothing — not  now — another  time.  I  should  like  to 
ascend  the  tower ;  let  us  go  on." 

The  cavaliere  was  greatly  puzzled.  It  was  plain  there 
was  something  on  her  mind.  What  could  it  be  ?  How 
fortunate,  he  told  himself,  if  she  had  taken  a  liking  to  Ma- 
rescotti,  and  desired  to  confess  it !  This  would  make  all 
easy.  When  he  had  spoken  to  the  count,  he  would  con 
trive  to  see  her  alone,  and  insist  upon  knowing  if  it  were 
so. 

The  door  was  now  opened,  and  the  porter  led  the  way, 
followed  by  the  count  and  Baldassare.  Trenta  came  next, 
Enrica  last.  They  ascended  stair  after  stair  almost  in 
darkness.  After  having  mounted  a  considerable  height, 
the  porter  unlocked  a  small  door  that  barred  their  farther 
advance.  Above  appeared  the  blackened  walls  of  the  hol 
low  tower,  broken  by  the  loop-holes  already  mentioned, 
through  which  the  ardent  sunshine  slanted.  Before  them 
was  a  wooden  stair,  crossing  from  angle  to  angle  up  to  a 
height,  with  no  other  support  but  a  frail  banister; 


THE  GUINIGI  TOWER.  133 

this  even  was  broken  in  places.  The  count  and  Enrica 
both  entreated  the  cavalicre  to  remain  below.  Marescotti 
ventured  to  allude  to  his  great  age — a  subject  he  himself 
continually,  as  lias  been  seen,  mentioned,  but  which  he 
generally  much  resented  when  alluded  to  by  others. 

Trenta  listened  with  perfect  gravity  and  politeness,  but, 
when  the  count  had  done  speaking,  he  placed  his  foot  firm 
ly  on  the  first  stair,  and  began  to  ascend  after  the  porter. 
The  others  were  obliged  to  follow.  At  the  last  flight  sev 
eral  loose  planks  shook  ominously  under  their  feet ;  but 
Trenta,  assisted  by  his  stick,  stepped  on  perseveringly.  He 
also  insisted  on  helping  Enrica,  who  was  next  to  him,  and 
who  by  this  time  was  both  giddy  and  frightened.  At 
length  a  trap-door,  at  the  top  of  the  tower,  was  reached 
and  unbarred  by  the  attendant.  Without,  covered  with 
grass,  is  a  square  platform,  protected  by  a  machicolated 
parapet  of  turreted  stone-work.  In  the  centre  rises  a  clus 
ter  of  ancient  bay-trees,  fresh  and  luxuriant,  spite  of  the 
wind  and  storms  of  centuries. 

The  count  leaped  out  upon  the  greensward  and  rushed 
to  the  parapet. 

"  How  beautiful ! "  he  exclaimed,  throwing  back  his 
head  and  drawing  in  the  warm  air.  "  See  how  the  sun  of 
New  Italy  lights  up  the  old  city  !  Cathedral,  palace,  church, 
gallery,  roof,  tower,  all  ablaze  at  our  feet !  Speak,  tell  me, 
is  it  not  wonderful  ?  "  and  he  turned  to  Enrica,  who,  anx 
iously  turning  from  side  to  side,  was  trying  to  discover 
where  she  could  best  overlook  the  street  of  San  Simone 
and  Nobili's  palace. 

Addressed  by  Marescotti,  she  started  and  stopped 
short. 

"  Never,  never,"  he  continued,  becoming  greatly  excited, 
"  shall  I  forget  this  meeting  ! — here  with  you — the  golden- 
haired  daughter  of  this  ancient  house ! " 

"  I ! "  exclaimed  Enrica.     "  O  count,  what  a  mistake ! 


134  THE  ITALIANS. 

I  have  no  house,  no  home.  I  live  on  the  charity  of  my 
aunt." 

"  That  makes  no  difference  in  your  descent,  fair  Guinigi. 
Charity !  charity !  Who  would  not  shower  down  oceans 
of  charity  to  possess  such  a  treasure  ?  "  He  leaned  his  back 
against  the  parapet,  and  bent  his  eyes  with  fervent  admi 
ration  on  her.  "  It  is  only  in  verse  that  I  can  celebrate  her," 
he  muttered,  "prose  is  too  cold  for  her  warm  coloring. 
The  Madonna  —  the  uninstructed  Madonna  —  before  the 
archangel's  visit — " 

"  But,  count,"  said  Enrica  timidly  (his  vehemence  and 
strange  glances  made  her  feel  very  shy),  "  will  you  tell  me 
the  names  of  the  beautiful  mountains  around  ?  I  have  seen 
so  little — I  am  so  ignorant." 

"  I  will,  I  will,"  replied  Marescotti,  speaking  rapidly, 
his  glowing  eyes  raising  themselves  from  her  face  to  look 
out  over  the  distance  ;  "  but,  in  mercy,  grant  me  a  few  mo 
ments  to  collect  myself.  Remember  I  am  a  poet ;  imagi 
nation  is  my  world ;  the  unreal  my  home ;  the  Muses  my 
sisters.  I  live  there  above,  in  the  golden  clouds  " — and  he 
turned  and  pointed  to  a  crest  of  glittering  vapor  sailing 
across  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky.  Then,  with  his  hand 
pressed  on  his  brow,  he  began  to  pace  rapidly  up  and  down 
the  narrow  platform. 

The  cavaliere  and  Baldassare  were  watching  him  from 
the  farther  end  of  the  tower. 

"  He !  he ! "  said  Trenta,  and  he  gave  a  little  laugh  and 
nudged  Baldassare.  "  Do  you  see  the  count  ?  He  is  fair 
ly  off.  Marescotti  is  too  poetical  for  this  world.  Unprac 
tical,  poor  fellow — very  unpractical.  The  fit  is  on  him  now. 
Look  at  him,  Baldassare ;  see  how  he  stares  about,  and 
clinches  his  fist.  I  hope  he  will  not  leap  over  the  parapet 
in  his  ecstasy." 

"  Ha  !  ha !  "  responded  Baldassare,  who  with  eyes  wide 
open,  and  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets,  leaned  back  beside 


THE  GUINIGI  TOWER.  135 

Trenta  against  the  wall.  "Ha,  ha! — I  must  laugh,"  Bal- 
dassare  whispered  into  his  ear — "  I  cannot  help  it — look 
how  the  count's  lips  are  moving.  He  is  in  the  most  ex 
traordinary  excitement." 

"  It's  all  very  fine,"  rejoined  Trenta,  "  but  I  wonder  he 
does  not  frighten  Enrica.  There  she  stands,  quite  still.  I 
can't  see  her  face,  but  she  seems  to  like  it.  It's  all  very 
fine,"  he  repeated,  nodding  his  white  head  reflectively. 
"Republicans,  communists,  orators,  poets,  heretics  —  all 
the  plagues  of  hell !  Dio  buono  !  give  me  a  little  plain 
common-sense — plain  common-sense,  and  a  paternal  govern 
ment.  As  to  Marescotti,  these  new-fangled  notions  ^Yill 
turn  his  brain  ;  he'll  end  in  a  mad-house.  I  don't  believe 
he  is  quite  in  his  senses  at  this  very  minute.  Look !  look  ! 
What  strides  he  is  taking  up  and  down  !  For  the  love  of 
Heaven,  my  boy,  run  and  fasten  the  trap-door  tight !  He 
may  fall  through  !  He's  not  safe !  I  swear  it,  by  all  the 
saints  ! "  Baldassare,  shaking  with  suppressed  laughter, 
secured  the  trap-door. 

"  I  must  say  you  are  a  little  hard  on  the  count,"  Baldas 
sare  said.  "  Why,  he's  only  composing.  I  know  his  way. 
Trust  me,  it's  a  sonnet.  He  is  composing  a  sonnet  addressed 
perhaps  to  the  signorina.  He  admires  her  very  much." 

Trenta  smiled,  and  mentally  determined,  for  the  second 
time,  to  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Count 
Marescotti  before  the  ridiculous  reports  circulating  in  Lucca 
reached  him, 

"  Per  Bacco  ! "  he  replied,  "  when  the  count  is  as  old  as 
I  am,  he  will  have  learned  that  quiet  is  the  greatest  luxury 
a  man  can  enjoy — especially  in  Italy,  where  the  climate  is 
hot  and  fevers  frequent." 

How  long  the  count  would  have  continued  in  the  clouds, 
it  is  impossible  to  say,  had  he  not  been  suddenly  brought 
down  to  earth — or,  at  least,  the  earth  on  the  top  of  the 
tower — by  something  that  suddenly  struck  his  gaze. 


136  THE   ITALIANS. 

Enrica,  who  had  strained  her  eyes  in  vain  to  discover 
some  trace  of  Nobili  in  the  narrow  street  below,  or  in  the 
garden  behind  his  palace,  had  now  thrown  herself  on  the 
grass  under  the  overhanging  branches  of  the  glossy  bay- 
trees.  These  inclosed  her  as  in  a  bower.  Her  colorless 
face  rested  upon  her  hand,  her  eyes  were  turned  toward 
the  ground,  and  her  long  blond  hair  fell  in  a  tangled  mass 
below  the  folds  of  her  veil,  upon  her  white  dress.  The 
count  stood  transfixed  before  her. 

"  Move  not,  sweet  vision  !  "  he  cried.  "  Be  ever  so ! 
That  innocent  face  shaded  by  the  classic  bay ;  that  white 
robe  rustling  with  the  thrill  of  womanly  affinities ;  those 
fair  locks  floating  like  an  aureole  in  the  breeze  thy  breath 
has  softly  perfumed !  Rest  there  enthroned — the  world 
thy  backguard,  the  sky  thy  canopy  !  Stay,  let  me  crown 
thee ! " 

As  he  spoke  he  hastily  plucked. some  sprays  of  bay, 
which  he  twisted  into  a  wreath.  He  approached  Enrica, 
who  had  remained  quite  still,  and,  kneeling  at  her  feet, 
placed  the  wreath  upon  her  head. 

"Enrica  Guinigi" — the  count  spoke  so  softly  that 
neither  Trenta  nor  Baldassare  could  catch  the  words — 
"  there  is  something  in  your  beauty  too  ethereal  for  this 
world." 

Enrica,  covered  with  blushes,  tried  to  rise,  but  he  held 
out  his  hands  imploringly  for  her  to  remain. 

"  Suffer  me  to  speak  to  you.  Yours  is  a  face  of  one 
easily  moved  to  love — to  love  and  to  suffer,"  he  added, 
strange  lights  coming  into  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  at  her. 

Enrica.  listened  to  him  in  painful  silence;  his  words 
sounded  prophetic. 

"  To  love  and  to  suffer ;  but,  loving  once  " — again  the 
count  was  speaking,  and  his  voice  enchained  her  by  its 
sweetness — "  to  love  forever.  Where  shall  the  man  be 
found  pure  enough  to  dare  to  accept  such  love  as  you  can 


THE  GUINIGI  TOWER.  137 

bestow  ?  By  Heavens  ! "  he  added,  and  his  voice  fell  to  a 
whisper,  and  his  black  eyes  seemed  to  penetrate  into  her 
very  soul,  "you  love  already.  I  read  it  in  the  depths  of 
those  heavenly  eyes,  in  the  shadow  that  already  darkens 
that  soft  brow,  in  the  dreamy,  languid  air  that  robs  you  of 
your  youth.  You  love — is  it  possible  that  you  love — ?  " 

He  stopped  before  the  question  was  finished — before 
the  name  was  uttered.  A  spasm,  as  if  wrung  from  him  by 
sharp  bodily  pain,  passed  over  his  features  as  he  asked  this 
question,  never  destined  to  be  answered.  No  one  but 
Enrica  had  heard  it.  An  indescribable  terror  seized  her ; 
from  pale  she  grew  deadly  white  ;  her  eyelids  dropped,  her 
lips  trembled.  Tears  gathered  in  Marescotti's  eyes  as  he 
gazed  at  her,  but  he  dared  not  complete  the  question. 

"  If  you  have  guessed  my  secret,  do  not — oh  !  do  not 
betray  me ! " 

She  said  this  so  faintly  that  the  sound  came  to  him  like 
a  whisper  from  the  rustling  bay-leaves. 

"  Never !  "  he  responded  in  a  low,  earnest  tone — 
"  never ! " 

She  believed  him  implicitly.  With  that  look,  that 
voice,  who  could  doubt  him  ? 

"  I  have  cause  to  suffer,"  she  replied  with  a  sigh,  not 
venturing  to  meet  his  eyes — "  to  suffer  and  to  wait.  But 
my  aunt — " 

She  said  no  more  ;  her  head  fell  on  her  bosom,  her  arms 
dropped  to  her  side,  she  sighed  deeply. 

"  May  I  be  at  hand  to  shield  you ! "  was  his  answer. 

After  this,  he,  too,  was  silent.  Rising  from  his  knees, 
he  leaned  against  the  trunk  of  the  bay-tree  and  contem 
plated  her  steadfastly.  There  was  a  strange  mixture  of 
passion  and  of  curiosity  in  his  mobile  face.  If  she  would 
not  tell  him,  could  he  not  rend  her  secret  from  her? 

Trenta,  seated  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  platform,  ob 
served  them  as  they  stood  side  by  side,  half  concealed  by 


138  THE   ITALIANS. 

the  foliage — observed  them  with  benign  satisfaction.  It 
was  all  as  it  should  be ;  his  mission  would  be  easy.  It  was 
clear  they  understood  each  other.  He  believed  at  that 
very  moment  Enrica  was  receiving  the  confession  of  Mare- 
scotti's  love ;  the  confusion  of  her  looks  was  conclusive. 
The  cavaliere's  whole  endeavor  was,  at  that  moment,  to 
keep  Baldassare  quiet ;  he  rejoiced  to  see  that  he  was  gently 
yielding  to  the  influence  of  the  heat,  and  nodding  at  his 
side 

"  Count,"  said  Enrica,  looking  up  and  endeavoring  to 
break  a  silence  which  had  become  painful,  "  if  I  have  in 
spired  you  with  any  interest — " 

She  hesitated. 

"  Jf  you  have  inspired  me  ?  "  ejaculated  Marescotti,  re 
proachfully,  not  moving  his  eyes  off  her. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  she  added  ;  "  but,  if  it  be 
so,  speak  to  me  in  the  voice  of  poetry.  Tell  me  your 
thoughts." 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  the  count,  clasping  his  hands  ;  "  I 
have  been  longing  to  do  so  ever  since  I  first  saw  you.  Will 
you  permit  it  ?  If  so,  give  me  paper  and  pencil,  that  I  may 
write." 

Enrica  had  neither.  Rising  from  the  ground,  she 
crossed  over  to  where  Trenta  sat,  apparently  absorbed  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  roofs  of  his  native  city.  Fortu 
nately,  after  diving  into  various  pockets,  he  found  a  pencil 
and  the  fly-leaf  of  a  letter.  Marescotti  took  them  and  re 
treated  to  the  farther  end  of  the  tower;  Enrica  leaned 
against  the  wall  beside  the  cavaliere. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  count  joined  them ;  he  returned 
the  pencil  with  a  bow  to  the  cavaliere.  The  sonnet  was 
already  written  on  the  fly-leaf  of  the  letter. 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Enrica,  "  give  me  that  paper,  I  know  it 
will  tell  me  my  fate.  Give  it  to  me.  Count,  do  not  refuse 
me."  Her  look,  her  manner,  was  eager — imploring.  As 


THE   GUINIGI   TOWER.  139 

the  count  drew  back,  she  endeavored  to  seize  the  paper 
from  his  hand.  But  Marescotti,  holding  the  paper  above 
his  head,  in  one  moment  had  crushed  it  in  his  fingers,  and, 
rushing  forward,  he  flung  it  over  the  battlements. 

"  It  is  not  worthy  of  you ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  excite 
ment  ;  "  it  is  -worthy  neither  of  you  nor  of  me !  No,  no," 
and  he  leaned  over  the  tower,  and  watched  the  paper  as 
it  floated  downward  in  the  still  air.  "  Let  it  perish." 

"  Oh  !  why  have  you  destroyed  it  ?  "  cried  Enrica,  great 
ly  distressed.  "  That  paper  would  have  told  me  all  I  want 
to  know.  How  cruel !  how  unkind  !  " 

But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  No  lamentation  could 
bring  the  paper  back  again.  The  sonnet  was  gone.  Mare 
scotti  had  sacrificed  the  man  to  the  poet.  His  artistic  sense 
had  conquered. 

"  Excuse  me,  dear  signorina,"  he  pleaded,  "  the  compo 
sition  was  imperfect.  It  was  too  hurried.  With  your  per 
mission,  on  my  return,  I  will  address  some  other  verses  to 
you,  more  appropriate — more  polished." 

"  Ah !  they  will  not  be  like  those.  They  will  not  tell 
me  what  I  want  to  know.  They  cannot  come  from  your 
very  soul  like  those.  The  power  to  divine  is  gone  from 
you."  Enrica  could  hardly  restrain  her  tears. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  answered  the  count,  "  but  I  could 
not  help  it ;  I  did  it  unconsciously." 

"Indeed,  count,  you  did  very  wrong,"  put  in  the  cava- 
liere  ;  "one  understands  you  wrote  in  furore — so  much  the 
better,"  and  Trenta  gave  a  sly  wink,  which  was  entirely 
lost  on  Marescotti.  "  But  time  is  getting  on.  When  are 
we  to  have  that  oration  on  the  history  and  beauties  of  Luc 
ca  that  we  came  up  to  hear?  Had  you  not  better  begin?" 

The  count  was  engaged  at  that  moment  in  plucking  a 
sprig  of  bay  for  himself  and  for  the  cavaliere  to  wear,  as 
he  said,  "  in  memoriam."  "  I  am  ready,"  he  replied.  "  It 
is  a  subject  that  I  love." 


140  THE  ITALIANS. 

"  Let  us  begin  with  the  mountains ;  they  are  the  nearest 
to  God."  As  he  pronounced  that  name,  the  count  raised 
his  eyes  reverently,  and  uncovered  his  head.  Enrica  had 
placed  herself  on  his  right  hand,  but  all  interest  had  died 
out  of  her  face.  She  only  listened  mechanically. 

(Yes,  the  mountains,  the  glorious  mountains !  There 
they  were — before,  behind,  in  front ;  range  upon  range — 
peak  upon  peak,  like  breakers  on  a  restless  sea  !  Moun 
tains  of  every  shade,  of  every  shape,  of  every  height.  Al 
ready  their  mighty  tops  were  flecked  with  the  glow  of  the 
western  sunbeams;  already  pink  and  purple  mists  had 
gathered  upon  their  sides,  filling  the  valleys  with  mys 
tery  !) 

"  There,"  said  the  count,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the 
winding  river  Serchio,  "is  La  Panga,  the  loftiest  Apennine 
in  Central  Italy.  The  peaked  summits  of  those  other  moun 
tains  more  to  the  right  are  the  marble-bosomed  range  of 
Carrara.  One  might  believe  them  at  this  time  covered 
with  a  mantle  of  snow,  but  for  the  ardent  sun,  the  deep 
green  of  the  belting  plains,  and  the  luxuriance  of  the  for 
ests.  Yonder  steep  chestnut-clothed  height  that  termi 
nates  the  valley  opening  before  us  is  Bargilio,  a  mountain 
fortress  of  the  Panciatici  over  the  Baths  of  Lucca." 

Marescotti  paused  to  take  breath.  Enrica's  eyes  lan 
guidly  followed  the  direction  of  his  hand.  The  cavaliere, 
standing  on  his  other  side,  was  adjusting  his  spectacles, 
the  better  to  distinguish  the  distance. 

"  To  the  south,"  continued  the  count,  pointing  with  his 
fmger — "  in  the  centre  of  that  rich  vine-trellised  Campagna, 
lies  Pescia,  a  garden  of  luscious  fruits.  Beyond,  nestling 
in  the  hollows  of  the  Apennines,  shutting  in  the  plain  of 
that  side,  is  ancient  Lombard-walled  Pistoja — the  key  to 
the  passes  of  Northern  Italy.  Farther  on,  nearer  Florence, 
rise  the  heights  of  Monte  Catni,  crowned  as  with  a  diadem 
by  a  small  burgh  untouched  since  the  middle  ages.  Nearer 


TUB   GUINIGI   TOWER.  141 

at  hand,  glittering  like  steel  in  the  sunshine,  is  the  lake 
of  Bientina.  You  can  see  its  low,  marshy  shores  fringed 
by  beauteous  woodlands,  but  Avithout  a  single  dwelling." 

Enrica,  in  a  fit  of  abstraction,  leaned  over  the  parapet. 
Her  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  city  beneath.  Marescotti 
followed  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  there  is  Lucca  ; "  and  as  he  spoke  he 
glanced  inquiringly  at  her,  and  the  tones  of  his  clear,  melo 
dious  voice  grew  soft  and  tender.  "  Lucca  the  Industrious, 
bound  within  her  line  of  ancient  walls  and  fortifications. 
Great  names  and  great  deeds  are  connected  with  Lucca. 
Here,  tradition  says,  Julius  Cassax  ruled  as  proconsul. 
How  often  may  the  sandals  of  his  feet  have  trod  these  nar 
row  streets — his  purple  robes  swept  the  dust  of  our  piazza ! 
Here  he  may  have  officiated  as  high-priest  at  our  altars — 
dictated  laws  from  our  palaces  !  It  was  after  the  conquest 
of  the  Nervii  (most  savage  among  the  Gaulish  tribes)  that 
Julius  CiBsar  is  said  to  have  first  come  to  Lucca.  Pompey 
and  Crassus  met  him  here.  It  was  at  this  time  that  Domi- 
tius — Ctesar's  enemy,  then  a  candidate  for  the  consulship 
— boasted  that  he  would  ruin  him.  But  Ca3sar,  seizing  the 
opportune  moment  of  his  recent  victories  over  the  Gauls, 
and  his  meeting  with  Pompey — formed  the  bold  plan  of 
grasping  universal  power  by  means  of  his  deadliest  enemies. 
These,  enemies,  rather  than  see  the  supreme  power  vested 
in  each  other,  united  to  advance  him.  The  first  triumvirate 
was  the  consequence  of  the  meeting.  Ages  pass  by.  The 
Roman  Empire  dissolves.  Barbarians  invade  Italy.  Lucca 
is  an  independent  state — not  long  to  remain  so,  however, 
for  the  Countess  Matilda,  daughter  of  Duke  Bonifazio,  is 
born  within  her  walls.  At  Lucca  Countess  Matilda  holds 
her  court.  By  her  counsels,  assistance,  and  the  rich  legacy 
of  her  patrimonial  dominions,  she  founds  the  temporal 
power  of  the  papacy.  To  Lucca  came,  in  the  fifteenth  cen 
tury,  Charles  VIII.  of  France,  presumptuous  enough  to  at- 


142  THE  ITALIANS. 

tempt  the  conquest  of  Naples ;  also  that  mighty  dissem 
bler,  Charles  V.,  to  meet  the  reigning  pontiff  Paul  III.  in 
our  cathedral  of  San  Martino.  But  more  precious  far  to 
me  than  the  traditions  of  the  shadowy  pomp  of  defunct 
tyrants  is  the  remembrance  that  Lucca  was  the  Geneva  of 
Italy — that  these  streets  beneath  us  resounded  to  the  pub 
lic  teaching  of  the  Reformation !  Such  progress,  indeed, 
had  the  reformers  made,  that  it  was  publicly  debated  in 
the  city  council,  '  If  Lucca  should  declare  herself  Protes 
tant—'  " 

"  Per  Bacco  !  a  disgraceful  fact  in  our  history !  "  burst 
out  Trenta,  a  look  of  horror  in  his  round  blue  eyes.  "  Hide 
it,  hide  it,  count !  For  the  love  of  Heaven  !  You  do  not 
expect  me  to  rejoice  at  this  ?  Pray,  when  you  mention  it, 
add  that  the  Protestants  were  obliged  to  flee  for  their  lives, 
and  that  Lucca  purified  itself  by  abject  submission  to  the 
Holy  Father." 

"  Yes ;  and  what  came  of  that  ?  "  cried  the  count,  rais 
ing  his  voice,  a  sudden  flush  of  anger  mounting  over  his 
face.  "  The  Church — your  Catholic  and  Apostolic  Church 
— established  the  Inquisition.  The  Inquisition  condemned 
to  the  flames  the  greatest  prophet  and  teacher  since  the 
apostles — Savonarola !  " 

Trenta,  knowing  how  deeply  Marescotti's  feelings  were 
engaged  in  the  subject  of  Savonarola,  was  too  courteous  to 
desire  any  further  discussion.  But  at  the  same  time  he 
was  determined,  if  possible,  to  hear  no  more  of  what  was 
to  him  neither  more  nor  less  than  blasphemy. 

"Do  you  know  how  long  we  have  been  up  here, 
count  ?  "  he  asked,  taking  out  his  watch.  "  Enrica  must 
return.  I  hope  you  won't  detain  us,"  he  said,  with  a  piti 
ful  look  at  the  count,  who  seemed  preparing  for  an  oration 
in  honor  of  the  mediaeval  martyr.  "  I  have  already  got  a 
violent  rheumatism  in  my  shoulder. — Here,  Baldassare, 
open  the  trap-door,  and  let  us  go  down.-— Where  is  Bal- 


THE   GUINIGI   TOWER.  143 

dassare  ? — Baldassare  !  Where  are  you,  imbecile  ?  Bal- 
dassare,  I  say  !  Why,  diamine !  Where  can  the  boy  be  ? 
He's  not  been  privately  practising  his  last  new  step  behind 
the  bay-trees,  and  taken  a  false  one  over  the  parapet  ?  " 

The  small  space  was  easily  searched.  Baldassare  was 
discovered  stretched  at  full  length  and  fast  asleep  under  a 
bench  on  the  other  side  of  the  bay-trees. 

"  Ah,  wretch  ! "  grumbled  the  old  chamberlain,  "  if  you 
sleep  like  this  you  will  outlive  me,  who  mean  to  flourish 
for  the  next  hundred  years.  He's  always  asleep,  except 
when  dancing,"  he  added  indignantly  appealing  to  Mare- 
scotti.  "Look  at  him.  There's  beauty  without  expres 
sion.  Doesn't  he  inspire  you  ?  Endymion  who  has  over 
slept  himself  and  missed  Diana — Narcissus  overcome  by 
the  sight  of  his  own  beauty." 

After  being  called,  pushed,  and  pinched,  by  the  cava- 
liere,  Baldassare  at  last  opened  his  eyes  in  great  bewilder 
ment — stretched  himself,  yawned,  then,  suddenly  clapping 
his  hand  to  his  side,  looked  fiercely  at  Trenta.  Trenta 
was  shaking  with  laughter. 

"  Mille  diavoli ! "  cried  Baldassare,  rubbing  himself  vig 
orously,  "  how  dare  you  pinch  me  so,  cavaliere  ?  I  shall  be 
black  and  blue.  Why  should  not  I  sleep  ?  Nobody  spoke 
to  me." 

"  I  fear  you  have  heard  little  of  the  history  of  Lucca," 
said  the  count,  smiling. 

"  DJO  buono  !  what  is  history  to  me  ?  I  hate  it ! — I  tell 
you  what,  cavaliere,  you  have  hurt  me  very  much."  And 
Baldassare  passed  his  hand  carefully  down  his  side.  "  The 
next  time  I  go  to  sleep  in  your  company,  I'll  trouble  you 
to  keep  your  fingers  to  yourself.  .You  have  rapped  me  like 
a  drum." 

Trenta  watched  the  various  phases  of  Baldassare's  wrath 
with  the  greatest  amusement.  The  descent  having  been 
safely  accomplished,  the  whole  party  landed  in  the  street. 


144  THE   ITALIANS. 

Count  Marescotti,  wlio  came  last,  advanced  to  take  leave 
of  Enrica.  At  this  moment  an  olive-skinned,  black-eyed 
girl  rose  out  of  the  shadow  of  a  neighboring  wall,  and,  low 
ering  a  basket  from  her  head,  filled  with  fruit — tawny  figs, 
ruddy  peaches,  purple  grapes,  and  russet-skinned  medlars, 
shielded  from  the  heat  by  a  covering  of  freshly -picked  vine- 
leaves — offered  it  to  Enrica.  Our  Adonis,  still  sulky  and 
sore  from  the  pinches  inflicted  by  the  mischievous  fingers 
of  the  cavaliere,  waved  the  girl  rudely  away. 

"  Fruit !  Che  !  Begone  !  our  servants  have  better. 
Such  fruit  as  that  is  not  good  enough  for  us  ;  it  is  full  of 
worms." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  timidly,  tears  gathered  in 
her  dark  eyes. 

"  It  is  for  my  mother,"  she  answered,  humbly ;  "  she  is 
ill." 

As  she  bent  her  head*  to  replace  the  basket,  Marescotti, 
who  had  listened  to  Baldassare  with  evident  disgust,  raised 
the  basket  in  his  arms,  and  with  the  utmost  care  poised  it 
on  the  coil  of  her  dark  hair. 

"  Beautiful  peasant,"  he  said,  "  I  salute  you.  This  is 
for  your  mother,"  and  he  placed  some  notes  in  her  hand. 

The  girl  thanked  him,  coloring  as  red  as  the  peaches  in 
her  basket,  then,  hastily  turning  the  corner  of  the  street, 
disappeared. 

"  A  perfect  Pomona  !  I  make  a  point  of  honoring 
beauty  whenever  I  find  it,"  exclaimed  the  count,  looking 
after  her.  He  cast  a  reproving  glance  at  Baldassare,  who 
stood  with  his  eyes  wide  open.  "  The  Greeks  worshiped 
beauty — I  agree  with  them.  Beauty  is  divine.  What  say 
you  ?  Were  not  the  Greeks  right  ?  " 

The  words  were  addressed  to  Baldassare — the  sense  and 
the  direction  of  his  eyes  pointed  to  Enrica. 

"  Yes  ;  beauty,"  replied  Baldassare,  smoothing  his  glossy 
mustache,  and  trying  to  look  very  wise  (he  was  not  in  the 


THE   GUINIGI   TOWER.  145 

least  conscious  of  the  covert  rebuke  administered  by  Mare- 
scotti) — "  beauty  is  very  refreshing,  but  I  must  say  I  prefer 
it  in  the  upper  classes.  For  my  part,  I  like  beauty  that 
can  dance — wooden  shoes  are  not  to  my  taste." 

"  Ah  !  canaglia  !  "  muttered  the  cavaliere,  "  there  is  no 
teaching  you.  You  will  never  be  a  gentleman." 

Baldassare  was  dumfounded.  He  had  not  a  word  to 
reply. 

"  Count " — and  the  old  chamberlain,  utterly  disregarding 
the  dismay  of  poor  Adonis,  who  never  clearly  understood 
what  he  had  done  to  deserve  such  severity,  now  addressed 
himself  to  Marescotti — "  will  37ou  be  visible  to-morrow  after 
breakfast  ?  If  so,  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  calling  on  you." 

"  With  pleasure,"  was  the  count's  reply. 

Enrica  stood  apart.  She  had  not  spoken  one  word  since 
the  disappearance  of  the  sonnet — that  sonnet  which  would 
have  told  her  of  her  future  ;  for  had  not  Marescotti,  by  some 
occult  power,  read  her  secret  ?  Alas  !  too,  was  she  not 
about  to  reenter  her  gloomy  home  without  catching  so 
much  as  a  glimpse  of  Nobili  ?  Count  Marescotti  had  no 
opportunity  of  saying  a  word  to  Enrica  that  was  not  audi 
ble  to  all.  He  did  venture  to  ask  her  if  she  would  be  pres 
ent  next  evening,  if  he  joined  the  marchesa's  rubber  ?  Be 
fore  she  could  reply,  Trenta  had  hastily  answered  for  her, 
that  "  he  would  settle  all  that  with  the  count  when  they 
met  in  the  morning."  So,  standing  in  the  street,  they 
parted.  Count  Marescotti  sought  in  vain  for  one  last  glance 
from  Enrica.  When  he  turned  round  to  look  for  Baldas 
sare,  Baldassare  had  disappeared. 
7 


CHAPTER  IV. 

C  OUNT      N  OBILI. 

WHEX  Nobili  rushed  home  through  the  dark  streets 
from  the  Countess  Orsetti's  ball,  he  shut  himself  up  in  his 
own  particular  room,  threw  himself  on  a  divan,  and  tried 
to  collect  his  thoughts.  At  first  he  was  only  conscious  of 
one  overwhelming  feeling — -a  feeling  of  intense  joy  that 
Nera  Boccarina  was  alive.  The  unspeakable  horror  he  had 
felt,  as  she  lay  stretched  out  on  the  floor  before  him,  had 
stupefied  him.  If  she  had  died  ? — As  the  horrible  question 
rose  up  within  him,  his  blood  froze  in  his  veins.  But  she 
was  not  dead — nay,  if  the  report  of  Madame  Orsetti  was  to 
be  trusted,  she  was  in  no  danger  of  dying. 

"  Thank  God  !—  thank  God !  "  Then,  as  the  quiet  of 
the  night  and  the  solitude  of  his  own  room  gradually  re 
stored  his  scattered  senses,  Nobili  recalled  her,  not  only  in 
the  moment  of  danger,  as  she  lay  death-like,  motionless,  but 
as  she  stood  before  him  lit  up  by  the  rosy  shadow  of  the 
silken  curtains.  Was  it  an  enchantment  ?  Had  he  been 
under  a  spell  ?  Was  Nera  fiend  or  angel  ?  As  he  asked 
himself  these  questions,  again  her  wondrous  eyes  shone 
upon  him  like  stars ;  again  the  rhythm  of  that  fatal  waltz 
struck  upon  his  ears  soft  and  liquid'as  the  fall  of  oars  upon 
the  smooth  bosom  of  an  inland  lake,  bathed  in  the  mellow 
light  of  sunset. 


COUNT  NOBILI.  147 

What  had  he  done  ?  He  had  kissed  her — her  lips  had 
clung  to  his;  her  fingers  had  linked  themselves  in  his 
grasp ;  her  eyes — ah  ! — those  eyes  had  told  him  that  she 
loved  him.  Loved  him  ! — why  not  ? 

And  Enrica ! — the  thought  of  Enrica  pierced  through 
him  like  the  stab  of  a  knife.  Nobili  sprang  to  his  feet, 
pressed  both  hands  to  his  bosom,  then  sank  down  again, 
utterly  bewildered.  Enrica ! — He  had  forgotten  her !  He, 
Nobili,  was  it  possible  ?  Forgotten  her  ! — A  pale  plain 
tive  face  rose  up  before  him,  with  soft,  pleading  eyes. 
There  was  the  little  head,  with  its  tangled  meshes  of 
yellow  curls,  the  slight  girlish  figure,  the  little  feet.  "  En 
rica  !  my  Enrica ! "  he  cried  aloud,  so  palpable  did  her 
presence  seem  —  "  Hove  you,  I  love  you  only !  "  He 
dashed,  as  it  were,  Nera's  image  from  him.  She  had 
tempted  him — tempted  him  with  all  the  fullness  of  her 
beauty,  tempted  him — and  he  had  yielded  !  On  a  sudden 
it  came  over  him.  Yes,  she  had  tempted  him.  She  had 
followed  him — pursued  him  rather.  Wherever  he  went, 
there  Nera  was  before  him.  He  recalled  it  all.  And 
how  he  had  avoided  her  with  the  avoidance  of  an  in 
stinct  !  He  clinched  his  fists  as  he  thought  of  it.  What 
devil  had  possessed  him  to  fall  headlong  into  the  snare  ? 
What  was  Nera — or  any  other  woman — to  him  now  ?  If 
he  had  been  obliged  to  dance  with  her,  why  had  he 
yielded  to  her  ? 

"  I  will  never  speak  to  her  again,"  was  his  instant  re 
solve.  But  the  next  moment  he  remembered  that  he  had 
been  indirectly  the  cause  of  an  accident  which  might  have 
been  fatal.  He  must  see  her  once  more  if  she  were  visible 
— or,  if  not,  he  must  see  her  mother.  Common  humanity 
demanded  this.  Then  he  would  set  eyes  on  her  no  more. 
He  had  almost  come  to  hate  her,  for  the  spell  she  had 
thrown  over  him. 

But  for  Enrica  he  would  have  left  Lucca  altogether  for 


148  THE  ITALIANS. 

a  time.  What  had  passed  that  evening  would  be  the  sub 
ject  of  general  gossip.  He  remembered  with  shame — and 
as  he  did  so  the  blood  rushed  over  his  face  and  brow — how 
openly  he  had  displayed  his  admiration.  He  remembered 
the  hot  glances  he  had  cast  upon  Nera.  He  remembered 
how  he  had  leaned  entranced  over  her  chair ;  how  he  had 
pressed  her  to  him  in  the  fury  of  that  wild  waltz,  her  white 
arms  entwined  round  him — the  fragrance  of  the  red  roses 
she  wore  in  her  hair  mounting  to  his  brain  !  At  the  mo 
ment  he  had  been  too  much  entranced  to  observe  what  was 
passing  about  him.  Now  he  recalled  glances  and  muttered 
words.  The  savage  look  Ruspoli  had  cast  on  him,  when  he 
led  her  up  to  him  in  one  of  the  figures  of  the  cotillon ;  how 
Malatesta  had  grinned  at  him — how  Orsetti  had  whispered 
"  Bravo  !  "  in  his  ear.  Might  not  some  rumor  of  all  this 
reach  Enrica  ? — through  Trenta,  perhaps,  or  that  chatter 
ing  fool,  Baldassare  ?  If  they  spoke  of  the  accident,  they 
would  surely  connect  his  name  with  that  of  Nera.  Would 
they  say  he  was  in  love  with  her  ?  He  grew  cold  as  he 
thought  of  it. 

Neither  could  Nobili  conceal  from  himself  how  probable 
it  was  that  the  Marchesa  Guinigi  should  come  to  some 
knowledge  of  his  clandestine  interviews  with  her  niece. 
It  had  been  necessary  to  trust  many  persons.  Spite  of 
heavy  bribes,  one  of  these  might  at  any  moment  betray 
them.  He  might  be  followed  and  watched,  spite  of  his 
precautions.  Their  letters  might  be  intercepted.  Should 
any  thing  happen,  what  a  situation  for  Enrica !  She  was 
too  trusting  and  too  inexperienced  fully  to  appreciate  the 
danger ;  but  Nobili  understood  it,  and  trembled  for  her. 
Something  must,  he  felt,  be  done  at  once.  Enrica  must  be 
prepared  for  any  thing  that  might  happen.  He  must  write 
to  her — write  this  very  night  to  her. 

And  then  came  the  question — what  should  he  say  to 
her  ?  Then  Nobili  felt,  and  felt  keenly,  how  much  he  had 


COUNT  NOBILI.  149 

compromised  himself.  Hitherto  his  love  for  Enrica,  and 
Enrica's  love  for  him,  had  been  so  full,  so  entire,  that  every 
thought  was  hers.  Now  there  was  a  name  he  must  hide 
from  her,  an  hour  of  his  life  she  must  never  know. 

Nobili  rose  from  the  divan  on  which  he  had  been  lying, 
lighted  some  candles,  and,  sitting  down  at  a  table,  took  a 
pen  in  his  hand.  But  the  pen  did  not  help  him.  He  tore 
it  between  his  teeth,  he  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  he 
stared  at  the  blank  paper  before  him.  What  should  he 
say  to  her  ?  was  the  question  he  asked  himself.  After  all, 
should  he  confess  all  his  weakness,  and  implore  her  forgive 
ness  ?  or  should  he  take  the  chance  of  her  hearing  nothing  ? 

After  much  thought  and  many  struggles  with  his  pen, 
ho  decided  he  would  say  nothing.  But  write  he  would ; 
write  he  must.  Full  of  remorse  for  what  had  passed,  he 
longed  to  assure  her  of  his  love.  He  yearned  to  cast  him 
self  for  pardon  at  her  feet;  to  feast  his  eyes  upon  the 
sweetness  of  her  fair  face  ;  to  fill  his  ears  with  the  sound 
of  her  soft  voice ;  to  watch  her  heavenly  eyes  gathering 
upon  him  with  the  gleam  of  incipient  passion. 

How  pure  she  was !  How  peerless,  how  different  from 
all  other  women  !  How  different  from  Nera !  dark-eyed, 
flashing,  tempting  Nera  ! — Nera,  so  sensual  in  her  ripe  and 
dazzling  beauty.  At  that  moment  of  remorse  and  repent 
ance  he  would  have  likened  her  to  an  alluring  fiend, 
Enrica  to  an  angel !  Yes,  he  would  write ;  he  would  say 
something  decisive.  This  point  settled,  Nobili  put  down 
the  pen,  struck  a  match,  and  lit  a  cigar.  A  cigar  would 
cairn  him,  and  help  him  to  think. 

His  position,  even  as  he  understood  it,  was  sufficiently 
difficult.  How  much  more,  had  he  known  all  that  lay  be 
hind  !  He  had  entered  life  a  mere  boy  at  his  father's  death, 
with  some  true  friends  ;  his  wealth  had  created  him  a  host 
of  followers.  His  frank,  loyal  disposition,  his  generosity, 
his  lavish  hospitality,  his  winning  manners,  had  insured 


150  THE   ITALIANS. 

him  general  popularity.  Not  one,  even  of  those  who  envied 
him,  could  deny  that  he  was  the  best  fellow  in  Lucca. 
Women  adored  him,  or  said  so,  which  came  to  the  same 
thing,  for  he  believed  them.  Many  had  proved,  with  more 
than  words,  that  they  did  so.  In  a  word,  he  had  been/eteeZ, 
followed,  and  caressed,  as  long  as  he  could  remember. 
Now  the  incense  of  flattery  floating  continually  in  the 
air  which  he  breathed  had  done  its  work.  He  was  not 
actually  spoiled,  but  he  had  grown  arrogant ;  vain  of  his  per 
son  and  of  his  wealth.  He  was  vain,  but  not  yet  frivolous  ; 
he  was  insolent,  but  not  yet  heartless.  At  his  age,  impres 
sions  come  from  without,  rather  than  from  within.  Nobili 
was  extremely  impressionable ;  he  also,  as  has  been  seen? 
wanted  resolution  to  resist  temptation.  As  yet,  he  had  not 
developed  the  firmness  and  steadfastness  that  really  be 
longed  to  his  character. 

But  spite  of  foibles,  spite  of  weakness  —  foibles  and 
weakness  were  but  part  of  the  young  blood  within  him — 
Nobili  possessed,  especially  toward  women,  that  rare  union 
of  courage,  tenderness,  and  fortitude,  we  call  chivalry  ;  he 
forgot  himself  in  others.  He  did  this  as  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world — he  did  it  because  he  could  not  help  it. 
He  was  capable  of  doing  a  great  wrong — he  was  also  capa 
ble  of  a  great  repentance.  His  great  wealth  had  hitherto 
enabled  him  to  indulge  every  fancy.  With  this  power  of 
wealth,  unknown  almost  to  himself,  a  spirit  of  conquest  had 
grown  upon  him.  He  resolved  to  overcome  whatever  op 
posed  itself  to  him.  Nobili  was  constantly  assured  by  those 
ready  flatterers  who  lived  upon  him — those  toadies  who,  like 
a  mildew,  dim  and  deface  the  virtues  of  the  rich — that  "he 
could  do  what  he  pleased." 

With  the  presumption  of  youtbhe  believed  this,  and  he 
acted  on  it,  especially  in  regard  to  women.  He  was  of  an 
age  and  temperament  to  feel  his  pulse  quicken  at  the  sight 
of  every  pretty  woman  he  met,  even  if  he  should  meet  a 


COUNT  NOBILI.  151 

dozen  in  the  day.  Until  lately,  however,  he  had  cared  for 
no  one.  .  He  had  trifled,  dangled,  ogled.  He  had  plucked 
the  fair  fruit  where  it  hung  freely  on  the  branch,  and  he  had 
turned  away  heart-whole.  He  knew  that  there  was  not  a 
young  lady  in  Lucca  who  would  not  accept  him  as  her  suitor 
— joyfully  accept  him,  if  he  asked  her.  Not  a  father,  let 
his  name  be  as  old  as  the  Crusades,  his  escutcheon  deco 
rated  with  "  the  golden  rose,"  or  the  heraldic  ermine  of  the 
emperors,  who  would  not  welcome  him  as  a  son-in-law. 

The  Marchesa  Guinigi  alone  had  persistently  repulsed 
him.  He  had  heard  and  laughed  at  the  outrageous  words 
she  had  spoken.  He  knew  what  a  struggle  it  had  cost  her 
to  sell  the  second  Guinigi  Palace  at  all.  He  knew  that  of 
all  men  she  had  least  desired  to  sell  it  to  him.  For  that 
special  reason  he  had  resolved  to  possess  it.  He  had  bought 
it,  so  to  say,  in  spite  of  her,  at  the  price  of  gold. 

Yet,  although  Nobili  laughed  with  his  friends  at  the 
marchesa's  outrageous  words,  in  reality  they  greatly  nettled 
him.  By  constant  repetition  they  came  even  to  rankle. 
At  last  he  grew — unconfessed,  of  course — so  aggravated  by 
them  that  a  secret  longing  for  revenge  rose  up  within  him. 
She  had  thrown  down  the  gauntlet,  why  should  he  not  pick 
it  up  ?  The  marchesa,  he  knew,  had  a  niece,  why  should 
he  not  marry  the  niece,  in  defiance  of  the  aunt  ? 

No  sooner  was  this  idea  conceived  than  he  determined, 
if  he  married  at  all  (marriage  to  a  young  man  leading  his 
dissipated  life  is  a  serious  step),  that,  of  all  living  women, 
the  marchesa's  niece  should  be  his  wife.  All  this  time  he 
had  never  seen  Enrica.  Yes,  he  would  marry  the  niece,  to 
spite  the  marchesa.  Marry — she,  the  marchesa,  should  see 
a  Guinigi  head  his  board  ;  a  Guinigi  seated  at  his  hearth ; 
worse  than  all,  a  Guinigi  mother  of  his  children  ! 

Alt  this  he  kept  closely  locked  within  his  own  breast. 
As  the  marchesa  had  intimated  to  him,  at  the  time  he 
bought  the  palace,  that  she  would  never  permit  him  to  cross 


152  THE   ITALIANS. 

her  threshold,  he  was  debarred  from  taking  thexisual  social 
steps  to  accomplish  his  resolve.  Not  that  he  in  the  least 
desired  to  see  her,  save  for  that  overbearing  disposition 
which  impelled  him  to  combat  all  opposition.  With  great 
difficulty,  and  after  having  expended  various  sums  in  bribes 
among  the  ill-paid  servants  of  the  marchesa,  he  had  learned 
the  habits  of  her  household. 

Enrica,  he  found,  had  a  servant,  formerly  her  nurse,  who 
never  left  her.  Teresa,  this  servant,  was  cautiously  ap 
proached.  She  was  informed  that  Count  Nobili  was  dis 
tractedly  in  love  with  the  signorina,  and  addressed  himself 
to  her  for  help.  Teresa,  ignorant,  well-meaning,  and  brim 
ming  over  with  that  mere  animal  fondness  for  her  foster- 
child  uneducated  women  share  with  brute  creatures,  was 
proud  of  becoming  the  medium  of  what  she  considered  an 
advantageous  marriage  for  Enrica.  The  secluded  life  she 
led,  the  selfish  indifference  with  which  her  aunt  treated  her, 
had  long  moved  Teresa's  passionate  southern  nature  to  a 
high  pitch  of  indignation.  Up  to  this  time  no  man  had 
been  permitted  to  enter  Casa  Guinigi,  save  those  who 
formed  the  marchesa's  whist-party. 

"  How,  then,"  reasoned  Teresa,  shrewdly,  "  was  the  si 
gnorina  to  marry  at  all  ?  Surely  it  was  right  to  help  her  to 
a  husband.  Here  was  one,  rich,  handsome,  and  devoted, 
one  who  would  give  the  eyes  out  of  his  head  for  the  signo 
rina."  Was  such  an  opportunity  to  be  lost  ?  Certainly 
not. 

So  Teresa  took  Nobili's  bribes  (bribes  are  as  common 
in  Italy  as  in  the  East),  putting  them  to  fructify  in  the 
National  Bank  with  an  easy  conscience.  Was  she  not 
emancipating  her  foster-child  from  that  old  devil, her  aunt? 
Had  she  not  seen  Nobili  himself  when  he  sent  for  her? — 
seen  him,  face  to  face,  inside  his  palace  glittering  liko  para 
dise  ?  And  had  he  not  given  her  his  word,  with  his  hand 
upon  his  heart  (also  given  her  a  pair  of  solid  gold  ear-rings, 


COUNT  NOBILI.  153 

which  she  wore  on  Sundays),  that  to  marry  Enrica  was  the 
one  hope  of  his  life  ?  Seeing  all  this,  Teresa  was,  as  I  have 
said,  perfectly  satisfied. 

When  Nobili  had  done  all  this,  impelled  by  mixed  feel 
ings  of  wounded  pride,  obstinacy,  and  defiance,  he  had 
never,  let  it  be  noted,  seen  Enrica.  But  after  a  meeting 
had  been  arranged  by  Teresa  one  morning  at  early  mass  in 
the  cathedral,  near  a  dark  and  unfrequented  altar  in  the 
transept — an  arrangement,  be  it  observed,  unknown  to 
Enrica — all  his  feelings  changed.  From  the  moment  he 
saw  her  he  loved  her  with  all  the  fervor  of  his  ardent  na 
ture  ;  from  that  moment  he  knew  that  he  had  never  loved 
before.  The  mystery  of  their  stolen  meetings,  the  sweet 
flavor  of  this  forbidden  fruit — and  what  man  does  not  love 
forbidden  fruit  better  than  labeled  pleasures? — the  inno 
cent  frankness  with  which  Enrica  confessed  her  love,  her 
unbounded  faith  in  him — all  served  to  heighten  his  passion. 
He  gloried — he  reveled  in  her  confidence.  Never,  never, 
he  swore  a  thousand  times,  should  she  have  cause  to  repent 
it.  In  the  possession  of  Enrica's  love,  all  other  desires, 
aims,  ambitions,  had — up  to  the  night  of  the  Orsetti  ball — 
vanished.  Up  to  that  night,  for  her  sake,  he  had  grown 
solitary,  silent — nay,  even  patient  and  subtle.  He  had 
clean  forgotten  his  feud  with  the  Marchesa  Guinigi,  or 
only  remembered  it  as  a  possible  obstacle  to  his  union 
with  Enrica ;  otherwise  the  marchesa  was  absolutely  indif 
ferent  to  him.  Up  to  the  night  of  the  Orsetti  ball  the 
whole  world  was  indifferent  to  him.  But  now  ! — 

Nobili,  sitting  very  still,  his  face  shaded  by  his  hand, 
had  finished  his  cigar.  While  smoking  it  he  had  decided 
what  he  would  say  to  Enrica.  Again  he  took  up  his  pen. 
This  time  he  dropped  it  in  the  ink,  and  wrote  as  follows : 

"  AMORE  :  I  have  treasured  all  the  love  you  gave  me 
when  last  we  met.  I  know  that  love  witnesses  for  me  also 


154  THE  ITALIANS. 

in  your  own  heart.  Beyond  all  earthly  things  you  are  dear 
to  me.  Come  to  me,  O  my  Enrica — come  to  me ;  never 
let  us  part.  I  must  have  you,  you  only.  I  must  gaze 
upon  you  hour  by  hour ;  I  must  hang  upon  that  dear  voice. 
I  must  feel  that  angel-presence  ever  beside  me.  When 
will  you  meet  me  ?  1  implore  you  to  answer.  After  our 
next  meeting  I  am  resolved  to  claim  you,  by  force  or  by 
free-will,  to  be  my  wife.  To  wait  longer,  O  my  Enrica, 
is  good  neither  for  you  nor  for  me.  My  love !  my  love ! 
you  must  be  mine — mine — mine!  Come  to  me — come 
quickly.  Your  adoring 

"MAEIO  NOBILI." 


CHAPTER  V. 

NUMBER  FOUR   AT  THE   UNIVERSO   HOTEL. 

CESARE  TREXTA  is  dressed  with  unusual  care.  His 
linen  is  spotless ;  liis  white  hair,  as  fine  as  silk,  is  carefully  • 
combed ;  his  chin  is  well  shaven.  He  wears  a  glossy  white 
hat,  and  carries  his  gold-headed  cane  in  his  hand.  Not 
that  he  condescends  to  use  that  cane  as  he  mounts  the 
marble  staircase  of  the  Universo  Hotel  (once  the  Palazzo 
Buffero)  a  little  stiffly,  on  his  way  to  keep  his  appointment 
with  Count  Marescotti ;  oh,  no — although  the  cavaliere  is 
well  past  eighty,  he  intends  to  live  much  longer;  he  re 
serves  that  cane,  therefore,  to  assist  him  in  his  old  age. 
Now  he  does  not  want  it. 

It  is  quite  clear  that  Trenta  is  come  on  a  mission  of 
great  importance ;  his  sleek  air,  and  the  solemnly  official 
expression  of  his^lump  rosy  face,  say  so.  His  glassy  blue 
eyes  are  without  their  pleasant  twinkle,  and  his, lips,  tight 
ly  drawn  over  his  teeth,  lack  their  usual  benignant  smile. 
Even  his  fat  white  hand  dimples  itself  on  the  top  of  his 
cane,  so  tightly  does  he  clutch  it.  He  has  learned  below 
that  Count  Marescotti  lives  at  No.  4  on  the  second  story ; 
at  the  door  of  No.  4  he  raps  softly.  A  voice  from  within 
asks,  "  Who  is  there  ?  " 

"  I,"  replies  Trenta,  and  he  enters. 

The  count,  who  is  seated  at  a  table  near  the  window, 


156  THE  ITALIANS. 

rises.  His  tall  figure  is  enveloped  in  a  dark  dressing- 
gown,  that  folds  about  him  like  a  toga.  He  has  all  the 
aspect  of  a  man  roused  out  of  deep  thought^  his  black 
hair  stands  straight  up  in  disordered  curls  all  over  his 
head — he  had  evidently  been  digging  both  his  hands  into 
it — his  eyes  are  wild  and  abstracted.  Taken  as  he  is  now, 
unawares,  that  expression  of  mingled  sternness  and  sweet 
ness  in  which  he  so  much  resembles  Castruccio  Castracani 
is  very  striking.  From  the  manner  he  fixes  his  eyes  upon 
Trenta  it  is  clear  he  does  not  at  once  recognize  him.  The 
cavaliere  returns  his  stare  with  a  look  of  blank  dismay. 

"  Ob,  carissimo  ! "  the  count  exclaims  at  last,  his  coun 
tenance  changing  to  its  usual  expression — he  holds  out 
both  hands  to  grasp  those  of  the  cavaliere — "how  I  re 
joice  to  see  you  1  Excuse  my  absence ;  I  had  forgotten  our 
appointment  at  the  moment.  That  book  " — and  he  points 
to  an  open  volume  lying  on  a  table  covered  with  letters, 
manuscripts,  and  piles  of  printed  sheets  tossed  together  in 
wild  confusion — "  that  book  must  plead  my  excuse ;  it  has 
riveted  me.  The  wrongs  of  persecuted  Italy  are  so  elo 
quently  pleaded !  Have  you  read  it,  my  dear  cavaliere  ? 
If  not,  allow  me  to  present  you  with  a  copy." 

Trenta  made  a  motion  with  his  hand,  as  if  putting  both 
the  book  and  the  subject  from  him  with  a  certain  disgust: 
he  shakes  his  head. 

"  I  have  not  read  it,  and  I  do  not  wiSh  to  read  it,"  he 
replies,  curtly. 

The  poor  cavaliere  feels  that  this  is  a  bad  beginning ; 
but  he  quickly  consoles  himself — he  was  of  a  hopeful  tem 
perament,  and  saw  life  serenely  and  altogether  in  rose- 
color — by  remembering  that  the  count  is  habitually  absent, 
also  that  he  habitually  uses  strong  language,  and  that  he 
had  probably  not  been  so  absorbed  by  the  wrongs  of  Italy 
as  he  pretends. 

"  I  fear  you  have  forgotten  our  appointment,  count," 


THE  UNIVERSO  HOTEL.  157 

recommences  the  cavaliere,  finding  that  Marescotti  is  silent, 
and  that  his  eyes  have  wandered  off  .to  the  pages  of  the 
open  book. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  my  dear  Trenta.  On  the  con 
trary,  had  you  not  come,  I  was  about  to  send  for  you.  I 
have  a  very  important  matter  to  communicate  to  you." 

The  cavaliere's  face  now  breaks  out  all  over  into  smiles. 
"  Send  for  me,"  he  repeats  to  .himself.  "  Good,  good !  I 
understand."  He  scats  himself  with  great  deliberation  in 
a  large,  well-stuffed  arm-chair,  near  the  table,  at  which 
Marescotti  still  continues  standing.  He  places  his  cane 
across  his  knees,  folds  his  hands  together,  then  looks  up  in 
the  other's  face. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear  count,"  he  answers  aloud,  "  we 
have  much  to  say  to  each  other — much  to  say  on  a  most 
interesting  subject."  And  he  gives  the  count  what  he  in 
tends  to  be  a  very  meaning  glance. 

"  Interesting  1 "  exclaims  the  count,  his  whole  counte 
nance  lighting  up — "  enthralling,  overwhelming ! — a  mat 
ter  to  me  of  life  or  death  !  " 

As  he  speaks  he  turns  aside,  and  begins  to  stride  up 
and  down  the  room,  as  was  his  wont  when  much  moved. 

"  He  !  he  !  my  dear  count,  pray  be  calm."  And  Trenta 
gives  a  little  laugh,  and  feebly  winks.  "We  hope  it  is  a 
matter  of  life,  not  of  death — no — not  of  deatli^  surely." 

"  Of  death,"  replied  the  count,  solemnly,  and  his  mobile 
eyes  flash  out,  and  a  dark  frown  gathers  on  his  brow — "  of 
death,  I  repeat.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  trifler  ?  I  stake 
my  life  on  the  die." 

Trenta  felt  considerably  puzzled.  Before  he  begins,  he 
is  anxious  to  assure  himself  that  the  nature  of  his  errand 
had  at  least  distinctly  dawned  upon  the  count's  mind,  if 
it  had  not  (as  he  hoped)  been  fully  understood  by  him. 
Should  he  let  Marescotti  speak  first ;  or  should  he,  Trenta, 
address  him  formally  ?  In  order  to  decide,  he  again  scans 


158  THE  ITALIANS. 

the  count's  face  closely.  But,  after  doing  so,  lie  is  obliged 
to  confess  that  Marescotti  is  impenetrable.  Now  he  no 
longer  strode  up  and  down  the  room,  but  he  has  seated 
himself  opposite  the  cavaliere,  and  again  his  speaking  eyes 
have  wandered  off  toward  the  book  which  he  has  been 
reading.  It  is  evident  he  is  mentally  resuming  the  same 
train  of  thought  Trenta's  entrance  had  interrupted.  Trenta 
feels  therefore  that  he  must  begin.  He  has  prepared  him 
self  for  some  transcendentalism  on  the  subject  of  marriage ; 
but  with  a  man  who  is  so  much  in  love  as  Count  Marescotti, 
and  who  was  about  to  send  for  him  and  to  tell  him  so,  there 
can  be  no  great  difficulty;  nor  can  it  matter  much  who 
opens  the  conversation.  The  cavaliere  takes  a  spotless  hand 
kerchief  from  his  pocket,  uses  it,  replaces  it,  then  coughs. 

"  Count,"  he  begins,  in  a  tone  of  conscious  importance, 
"  when  I  proposed  this  meeting,  it  was  to  make  you  a 
proposal  calculated  to  exercise  the  utmost  influence  over 
your  future  life,  and — the  life  of  another,"  he  adds,  in  a 
lower  tone.  "  You  appear  to  have  anticipated  me  by  de 
siring  to  send  for  me.  You  are,  of  course,  aware  of  my 
errand  ?  " 

As  he  asks  this  question,  there  is,  spite  of  himself,  a 
slight  tremor  in  his  voice,  and  the  usual  ruddiness  of  his 
cheeks  pales  a  little. 

"  How  very  mysterious  !  "  exclaims  the  count,  throwing 
himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  You  look  like  a  benevolent 
conspirator,  cavaliere  !  Surely,  my  dear  old  friend,  you  are 
not  about  to  change  your  opinions,  and  to  become  a  disci 
ple  of  freedom  ?  " 

"  Change  my  opinions  !  At  my  age,  count ! — Che,  che  ! " 
— Trenta  waves  his  hand  impatiently.  "  When  a  man  ar 
rives  at  my  age,  he  does  not  change  his  opinions — no, 
count,  no ;  it  is,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so,  it  is  your 
self  in  whom  the  change  is  to  be  wrought — yourself 
only-" 


TIIE  UNIVERSO  HOTEL.  159 

The  count,  who  is  still  leaning  back  in  his  chair  in  an 
attitude  of  polite  attention,  starts  violently,  sits  straight 
upright,  and  fixes  his  eyes  upon  Trenta. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  cavaliere  ?  After  a  life  devoted 
to  my  country,  you  cannot  imagine  I  should  change  ?  The 
very  idea  is  offensive  to  me." 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  count,  you  misapprehend  me,"  re 
joins  Trenta,  soothingly.  (He  perceived  the  mistake  into 
which  the  word  "  change  "  had  led  Count  Marescotti,  and 
dreaded  exciting  his  too  susceptible  feelings.)  "  It  is  no 
change  of  that  kind  I  allude  to;  the  change  I  mean  is  in 
the  nature  of  a  reward  for  the  life  of  sacrifice  you  have 
led — a  reward,  a  consolation  to  your  fervid  spirit.  It  is 
to  bring  you  into  an  atmosphere  of  peace,  happiness,  and 
love.  To  reconcile  you  perhaps,  as  a  son,  erring,  but 
repentant,  with  that  Holy  Mother  Church  to  which  you 
still  belong.  This  is  the  change  I  am  come  to  offer  you." 

As  the  cavaliere  proceeds,  the  count's  expressive  eyes 
follow  every  word  he  utters  with  a  look  of  amazement. 
He  is  about  to  reply,  but  Trenta  places  his  finger  on  his 
lips. 

"  Let  me  continue,"  he  says,  smiling  blandly.  "  When 
I  have  done,  you  shall  answer.  In  one  word,  count,  it  is 
marriage  I  am  come  to  propose  to  you." 

The  count  suddenly  rises  from  his  seat,  then  he  hur 
riedly  reseats  himself.  A  look  of  pain  comes  into  his  face. 

"  Permit  me  to  proceed,"  urges  the  cavaliere,  watching 
him  anxiously.  "  I  presume  you  mean  to  marry  ?" 

Marescotti  was  silent.  Trenta's  naturally  piping  voice 
grows  shriller  as  he  proceeds,  from  a  certain  sense  of  agi 
tation. 

"  As  the  common  friend  of  both  parties,  I  am  come  to 
propose  a  marriage  to  you,  Count  Marescotti." 

"  And  who  may  the  lady  be  ?  "  asks  the  count,  drawing 
back  with  a  sudden  air  of  reserve.  "  Who  is  it  that  would 


160  THE  ITALIANS. 

consent  to  leave  home  and  friends,  perhaps  country,  to 
share  the  lot  of  a  fugitive  patriot  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  count,  this  will  not  do,"  answers  Trenta, 
smiling,  a  certain  twinkle  returning  to  his  blue  eyes. 
"  You  are  a  perfectly  free  agent.  If  you  are  a  fugitive,  it 
is  because  you  like  change.  You  bear  a  great  name — you 
are  rich,  singularly  handsome — an  ardent  admirer  of  beauty 
in  art  and  Nature.  Now,  ardor  on  one  side  excites  ardor 
on  the  other," 

While  he  is  speaking,  Trenta  had  mentally  decided 
that  Marescotti  was  the  most  impracticable  man  he  had 
ever  encountered  in  the  various  phases  of  his  court  career. 

"  A  fugitive,"  he  repeats,  almost  with  a  sneer.  "  No, 
no,  count,  this  will  not  do  with  me."  The  cavaliere  pauses 
and  clears  his  throat. 

"  You  have  not  yet  answered  me,"  says  the  count, 
speaking  low,  a  certain  suppressed  eagerness  penetrating 
the  assumed  indifference  of  his  manner.  "  Who  is  the 
lady?" 

"  Who  is  the  lady  ?  "  echoes  the  cavaliere.  "  Did  you 
not  tell  me  just  now  you  were  about  to  send  for  me  ?  " 
Trenta  speaks  fast,  a  flush  overspreads  his  cheeks.  "  Who 
is  the  lady  ? — You  astonish  me !  Per  Bacco  !  There  can 
be  but  one  lady  in  question  between  you  and  me — that 
lady  is  Enrica  Guinigi."  His  voice  drops.  There  is  a 
dead  silence. 

"  That  the  marriage  is  suitable  in  all  respects,"  Trenta 
continues,  reassured  by  the  silence — "I  need  not  tell  you; 
else  I,  Cesare  Trenta,  would  not  be  here  as  the  embassa- 
dor." 

Again  the  stout  little  cavaliere  stops  to  take  breath, 
under  evident  agitation ;  then  he  draws  himself  up,  and 
turns  his  face  toward  the  count.  As  Trenta  proceeds, 
Marescotti's  brow  is  overclouded  with  thought — a  haggard 
expression  now  spreads  over  his  features.  His  eyes  are 


THE  TTNIVERSO  HOTEL.  161 

turned  downward  on  the  floor,  else  the  cavaliere  might 
have  seen  that  their  brilliancy  is  dimmed  by  rising  tears. 
With  his  elbow  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  on  which 
he  sits,  the  count  passes  his  other  hand  from  time  to  time 
slowly  to  and  fro  across  his  forehead,  pushing  back  the  dis 
ordered  curls  that  fall  upon  it. 

"  To  restore  and  to  continue  an  illustrious  race — to 
unite  yourself  with  a  lovely  girl  just  bursting  into  woman 
hood."  Trenta's  voice  quivers  as  he  says  this.  "  Ah !  love 
ly  indeed,  in  mind  as  well  as  body,"  he  adds,  half  aloud. 
"  This  is  a  privilege  you,  Count  Marescotti,  can  appreciate 
above  all  other  men.  That  you  do  appreciate  it  you  have 
already  made  evident.  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  speak 
about  Enrica  herself;  you  have  already  judged  her.  You 
have,  before  my  eyes,  approached  her  with  the  looks  and 
the  language  of  passionate  admiration.  It  is  not  given  to 
all  men  to  be  so  fascinating.  I  have  seen  it  with  delight. 
I  love  her '  — his  voice  broke  and  shook  with  emotion — "  I 
love  her  as  if  she  were  my  own  child." 

All  the  enthusiasm  of  which  the  old  chamberlain  is 
capable  passes  into  his  face  as  he  speaks  of  Enrica.  At 
that  moment  he  really  did  look  as  young  as  he  was  contin 
ually  telling  every  one  that  he  felt. 

"  Count  Marescotti,"  he  continues,  a  solemn  tone  in  his 
voice  as  he  slowly  pronounces  the  words,  raising  his  head 
at  the  same  time,  and  gazing  fixedly  into  the  other's  face — 
"  Count  Marescotti,  I  am  come  here  to  propose  a  marriage 
between  you  and  Enrica  Guinigi.  The  marchesa  empow 
ers  me  to  say  that  she  constitutes  Enrica  her  sole  heiress, 
not  only  of  the  great  Guinigi  name,  but  of  the  remaining 
Guinigi  palace,  with  the  portrait  of  our  Castruccio,  the 
heirlooms,  the  castle  of  Corellia,  and  lands  of — " 

"  Stop,  stop,  my  dear  Trenta ! "  cries  the  count,  holding 
up  both  his  hands  in  remonstrance ;  "  you  overwhelm  me. 
I  require  no  such  inducements ;  they  horrify  me.  Enrica 


162  THE  ITALIANS. 

Guinigi  is  sufficient  in  herself — so  bright  a  jewel  requires 
no  golden  settings." 

At  these  words  the  cavaliere  beams  all  over.  He  rubs 
his  fat  hands  together,  then  gently  claps  them. 

"  Bravo  ! — bravo,  count !  I  see  you  appreciate  her. 
Per  Dio !  you  make  me  feel  young  again  !  I  never  was  so 
happy  in  my  life !  I  should  like  to  dance !  I  will  dance 
by-and-by  at  the  wedding.  We  will  open  the  state-rooms. 
There  is  not  a  grander  suite  in  all  Italy.  It  is  superb.  I 
will  dance  a  quadrille  with  the  marchesa.  Bagatella !  I 
shall  insist  on  it.  I  will  execute  a  solo  in  the  figure  of  the 
pastorelle.  I  will  show  Baldassare  and  all  the  young  men 
the  finish  of  the  old  style.  People  did  steps  then — they 
did  not  jump  like  wild  horses — nor  knock  each  other  down. 
No — then  dancing  was  practised  as  a  fine  art." 

Suddenly  the  brisk  old  cavaliere  stops.  The  expression 
of  Marescotti's  large,  earnest  eyes,  fixed  on  him  wonder- 
in  gly,  recalls  him  to  himself. 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  friend ;  when  you  are  my  age, 
you  will  better  understand  an  old  man's  feelings.  We  are 
losing  time.  Now  get  your  hat,  and  come  with  me  at  once 
to  Casa  Guinigi ;  the  marchesa  expects  you.  We  will  set 
tle  the  day  of  the  betrothal. — My  sweet  Enrica,  how  I  long 
to  see  you ! " 

While  he  is  speaking  Trenta  rises  and  strikes  his  cane 
on  the  ground  with  a  triumphant  air ;  then  he  holds  out 
both  his  hands  toward  the  count. 

"  Shake  hands  with  me,  my  dear  Marescotti.  I  congrat 
ulate  you — with  my  whole  soul  I  congratulate  you !  She 
will  be  your  salvation,  the  dear,  blue-eyed  little  angel  ?  " 

In  the  tumult  of  his  excitement  Trenta  had  taken  every 
thing  for  granted.  His  thoughts  had  flown  off  to  Enrica. 
His  benevolent  heart  throbbed  with  joy  at  the  thought  of 
her  emancipation  from  the  thralldom  of  her  home.  A  vision 
of  the  dark-haired,  pale-faced  Marescotti,  and  the  little 


THE  UNIVERSO  HOTEL.  163 

blond  head,  with  its  shower  of  golden  curls,  kneeling  to 
gether  before  the  altar  in  the  sunshine,  danced  before  his 
eyes.  Marescotti  would  become  a  Christian — a  firm  pillar 
of  the  Church  ;  he  would  rear  up  children  who  would  wor 
ship  God  and  the  Holy  Father ;  he  would  restore  the  glory 
of  the  Guinigi ! 

From  this  roseate  dream  the  poor  cavaliere  was  abruptly 
roused.  His  outstretched  hand  had  not  been  taken  by 
Marescotti.  It  dropped  to  his  side.  Trenta  looked  up 
sharply.  His  countenance  suddenly  fell ;  a  purple  flush 
covered  it  from  chin  to  forehead,  penetrating  even  the  very 
roots  of  his  snowy  hair.  His  cane  dropped  with  a  loud 
thud,  and  rolled  away  along  the  uncarpeted  floor.  He 
thrust  both  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  stood  motion 
less,  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  like  a  man  stunned. 

"  Dio  buono  ! — Dio  buono !  "  he  muttered,  "  the  man  is 
mad  ! — the  man  is  mad ! "  Then,  after  a  few  minutes  of 
absolute  silence,  he  asked,  in  a  husky  voice,  "  Marescotti, 
what  does  this  mean  ?  " 

The  count  had  turned  away  toward  the  window.  At 
the  sound  of  the  cavaliere's  husky  voice,  he  moved  and 
faced  him.  In  the  space  of  a  few  moments  he  had  greatly 
changed.  Suddenly  he  had  grown  worn  and  weary-looking. 
His  eyes  were  sunk  into  his  head ;  dark  circles  had  formed 
round  them.  His  bloodless  cheeks,  transparent  with  the 
pallor  of  perfect  health,  were  blanched  ;  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  worked  convulsively. 

"Does  the  lady — does  Enrica  Guinigi  know  of  this 
proposal  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  voice  so  sad  that  the  cavaliere's 
indignation  against  him  cooled  considerably. 

"  Good  God ! "  exclaimed  Trenta,  "  such  a  question  is  an 
insult  to  me  and  to  my  errand.  Can  you  imagine  that  I, 
all  my  life  chamberlain  to  his  highness  the  Duke  of  Lucca, 
am  capable  of  compromising  a  lady  ?  " 

"  Thank  God  ! "  ejaculated  the  count,  emphatically,  clasp- 


164  THE  ITALIANS. 

ing  his  hands  together,  and  raising  his  eyes — "  thank  God ! 
Forgive  me  for  asking."  His  whole  voice  and  manner  had 
changed  as  rapidly  as  his  aspect.  There  was  a  sense  of 
suffering,  a  quiet  resignation  about  him,  so  utterly  unlike 
his  usual  excitable  manner  that  Trenta  was  puzzled  beyond 
expression — so  puzzled,  indeed,  that  he  was  speechless. 
Besides,  a  veteran  in  etiquette,  he  felt  that  it  was  to  him 
self  an  explanation  was  due.  Marescottl  had  been  about 
to  send  for  him.  Now  he  was  there,  Marescotti  had  heard 
his  proposal,  it  was  for  Marescotti  to  answer. 

That  the  count  felt  this  also  was  apparent.  There  was 
something  solemn  in  his  manner  as  he  turned  away  from 
the  window  and  slowly  advanced  toward  the  cavaliere. 
Trenta  was  still  standing  immovable  on  the  same  spot 
where  he  had  muttered  in  the  first  moment  of  amazement, 
"  He  is  mad  ! " 

"  My  dear  old  friend,"  said  the  count,  speaking  with 
evident  effort  in  a  dull,  sad  voice,  "there  is  some  mistake. 
It  was  not  to  speak  about  any  lady  that  I  was  about  to  send 
for  you." 

"  Not  about  a  lady  ! "  cried  Trenta,  aghast.  "  Mercy 
of  God !— " 

"  Let  that  pass,"  interrupted  the  count,  waving  his  hand. 
"  You  have  asked  me  for  an  explanation — an  explanation 
you  shall  have."  Pie  sighed  deeply,  then  proceeded — the 
crvaliere  following  every  word  he  uttered  with  open  mouth 
and  wildly-staring  eyes :  "  Of  the  lady  I  can  say  no  more 
than  that,  on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,  to  me  she  ap 
proaches  nearer  the  divine  than  any  woman  I  have  ever 
seen — nay,  than  any  woman  I  have  ever  dreamed  of." 

A  flash  of  fire  lit  up  the  depths  of  the  count's  dark  eyes, 
and  there  was  a  tone  of  melting  tenderness  in  his  rich  voice 
as  he  spoke  of  Enrica.  Then  he  relapsed  into  his  former 
weary  manner — the  manner  of  a  man  pronouncing  his  own 
death-warrant. 


TIIE  UNI  VERSO  HOTEL.  1G5 

"  Of  the  unspeakable  honor  you  have  done  me,  as  has 
also  the  excellent  Marchesa  Guinigi — it  does  not  become 
me  to  speak.  Believe  me,  I  feel  it  profoundly."  And  the 
count  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  bent  his  grand 
head.  Trenta,  with  formal  politeness,  returned  the  silent 
salute. 

"  But" — and  here  the  count's  voice  faltered,  and  there 
was  a  dimness  in  his  eyes,  round  which  the  black  circles 
had  deepened — "  but  it  is  an  honor  I  must  decline." 

Trenta,  still  rooted  to  the  same  spot,  listened  to  each 
word  that  fell  from  the  count's  lips  with  a  look  of  anguish. 

"  Sit  down,  cavaliere — sit  down,"  continued  Marescotti, 
seeing  his  distress.  He  put  his  arm  round  Trenta's  burly, 
well-filled  figure,  and  drew  him  down  gently  into  the 
depths  of  the  arm-chair.  "  Listen,  cavaliere — listen  to  what 
I  have  to  say  before  you  altogether  condemn  me.  The 
sacrifice  I  am  making  costs  me  more  than  I  can  express. 
You  hold  before  my  eyes  what  is  to  me  more  precious  than 
life ;  you  tempt  me  with  what  every  sense  within  me — 
heart,  soul,  manliness — urges  me  to  clutch ;  yet  I  dare  not 
accept  it." 

He  paused;  so  profound  a  sigh  escaped  him  that  it 
almost  formed  itself  into  a  groan. 

"  I  don't  understand  all  this,"  said  Trenta,  reddening 
with  indignation.  He  had  been  by  degrees  collecting  his 
scattered  senses.  "  I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  You  have, 
count,  placed  me  in  a  most  awkward  position ;  I  feel  it  very 
much.  You  speak  of  a  mistake — a  misapprehension.  I 
beg  to  say  there  has  been  none  on  my  part ;  I  am  not  in 
the  habit  of  making  mistakes." — It  will  be  seen  that  the 
cavaliere's  temper  was  rising  with  the  sense  of  the  intoler 
able  injury  Count  Marescotti  was  inflicting  on  himself  and 
all  concerned. — "  I  have  undertaken  a  very  serious  respon 
sibility  ;  I  have  failed,  you  tell  me.  What  am  I  to  say  to 
the  marchesa?" 


1G6  THE   ITALIANS. 

His  shrill  voice  rose  into  an  angry  cry.  Altogether,  it 
was  more  than  he  could  bear.  For  a  moment,  the  injury 
to  Enrica  was  forgotten  in  his  own  personal  sense  of 
wrong.  It  was  too  galling  to  fail  in  an  official  embassy 
Trenta,  who  always  acted  upon  mature  reflection,  abhorred 
failure. 

"  Tell  her,"  answered  the  count,  raising  his  voice,  his 
eyes  kindling  as  he  spoke — "  tell  her  I  am  here  in  Lucca 
on  a  sacred  mission.  I  confide  it  to  her  honor.  A  man 
sworn  to  a  mission  cannot  marry.  As  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage,  so 
I,  the  anointed  priest  of  the  people,  dare  not  marry ;  it 
would  be  sacrilege."  His  powerful  voice  rang  through  the 
room ;  he  raised  his  hands  aloft,  as  if  invoking  some  unseen 
power  to  whom  he  belonged.  "  When  you,  cavaliere,  en 
tered  this  room,  I  was  about  to  confide  my  position  to  you. 
I  am  at  Lucca — Lucca,  once  the  foster-mother  of  progress, 
and,  I  pray  Heaven,  to  become  so  again  ! — I  am  at  Lucca 
to  found  a  mission  of  freedom."  A  sudden  gesture  told 
him  how  much  Trenta  was  taken  aback  at  this  announce 
ment.  "  We  differ  in  our  opinions  as  widely  as  the  poles," 
continued  the  count,  warming  to  his  subject,  "  but  you  are 
my  old  friend— I  felt  you  would  not  betray  me.  Now, 
after  what  has  passed,  as  a  man  of  honor,  I  am  bound  to 
confide  in  you.  O  Italy !  my  country ! "  exclaimed  the 
count,  clasping  his  hands,  and  throwing  back  his  head  in  a 
frenzy  of  enthusiasm,  "  what  sacrifice  is  too  great  for  thee  ? 
Youth,  hope,  love — nay,  life  itself — all — all  I  devote  to 
thee ! " 

As  he  was  speaking,  a  ray  of  sunlight  penetrated 
through  the  closed  windows.  It  struck  like  a  fiery  arrow 
across  the  darkened  room,  and  fell  full  upon  the  count's  up 
turned  face,  lighting  up  every  line  of  his  noble  countenance. 
There  was  a  solemn  passion  in  his  eyes,  a  rapt  fervor  in 
his  gaze,  that  silenced  even  the  justly-irritated  Trenta. 


THE  UNIVERSO  HOTEL.  1G7 

Nevertheless  the  cavaliere  was  not  a  man  to  be  put  off 
by  mere  words,  however  imposing  they  might  be.  He  re 
turned,  therefore,  to  the  charge  perseveringly. 

"  You  speak  of  a  mission,  Count  Marescotti ;  what  is 
the  nature  of  this  mission  ?  Nothing  political,  I  hope  ?  " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  The  count's  eyelids  dropped 
over  his  eyes  as  he  met  Trenta's  inquiring  glance.  Then 
he  bowed  his  head  in  acquiescence. 

"Another  revolution  may  do  much  for  Italy,"  he  an 
swered,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  For  the  love  of  God,"  ejaculated  Trenta,  stung  to  the 
quick  by  what  he  looked  upon  at  that  particular  moment 
as  in  itself  an  aggravation  of  his  wrongs,  "  don't  remind 
me  of  your  politics,  or  I  shall  instantly  leave  the  room. 
Domine  Dio  !  it  is  too  much.  You  have  just  escaped  by 
the  veriest  good  luck  (good  luck,  by-the-way,  you  did  not 
in  the  least  deserve)  a  life-long  imprisonment  at  Rome. 
You  had  a  mission  there,  too,  I  believe." 

This  was  spoken  in  as  bitter  a  sneer  as  the  cavaliere's 
kindly  nature  permitted. 

"  Now  pray  be  satisfied.  If  you  and  I  are  not  to  part 
this  very  instant,  don't  let  me  realize  you  as  the  'Red 
count.'  That  is  a  character  I  cannot  tolerate." 

Trenta,  so  seldom  roused  to  anger,  shook  all  over  with 
rage.  "  I  believe  sincerely  that  it  is  such  so-called  patriots 
as  yourself,  with  their  devilish  missions,  that  will  ruin  us 
all)' 

"  It  is  because  }*ou  are  ignorant  of  the  grandeur  of  our 
cause,  it  is  because  you  do  not  understand  our  principles, 
that  you  misjudge  us,"  responded  the  count,  raising  his 
eyes  upon  Trenta,  and  speaking  with  a  lofty  disregard  of 
his  hot  words.  "  Permit  me  to  unfold  to  you  something 
of  our  philosophy,  a  philosophy  which  will  resuscitate  our 
country,  and  place  her  again  in  her  ancient  position,  as  in 
tellectual  monitress  of  Europe.  You  must  not,  cavaliere, 


168  THE  ITALIANS. 

judge  either  of  my  mission  or  of  my  creed  by  the  yelping 
of  the  miserable  curs  that  dog  the  heels  of  all  great  enter 
prises.  There  is  the  penetralia,  the  esoteric  belief,  in  all 
great  systems  of  national  belief." 

The  count  spoke  with  emphasis,  yet  in  grave  and  meas 
ured  accents  ;  but  his  lustrous  eyes,  and  the  wild  confusion 
of  those  black  locks,  that  waved,  as  it  were,  sympathetic  to 
his  humor,  showed  that  his  mind  was  engrossed  with 
thoughts  of  overwhelming  interest. 

The  cavaliere,  after  his  last  indignant  outburst,  had  sub 
sided  into  the  depths  of  the  arm-chair  in  which  Marescotti 
had  placed  him  ;  it  was  so  large  as  almost  to  swallow  up 
the  whole  of  his  stout  little  person.  With  his  hands  joined, 
his  dimpled  fingers  interlaced  and  pointing  upward,  he 
patiently  awaited  what  the  count  might  say.  He  felt  pain 
fully  conscious  that  he  had  failed  in  his  errand.  This  irri 
tated  him  exceedingly.  He  had  not  entered  that  room — 
No.  4,  at  the  Universe  Hotel — in  order  to  listen  to  the 
elaboration  of  Count  Marescotti's  mission,  but  in  order  to 
set  certain  marriage-bells  ringing.  These  marriage-bells 
were,  it  seemed,  to  be  forever  mute.  Still,  having  de 
manded  an  explanation  of  what  he  conceived  to  be  the 
count's  most  incomprehensible  conduct,  he  was  bound,  he 
felt,  in  common  courtesy,  to  listen  to  all  he  had  to  say. 

Now  Trenta  never  in  his  life  was  wanting  in  the  very 
flower  of  courtesy ;  he  would  much  sooner  have  shot  him 
self  than  be  guilty  of  an  ill-bred  word.  So,  under  protest, 
therefore — a  protest  more  distinctly  written  in  the  general 
puckering  up  of  his  round,  plump  face,  and  a  certain  sulky 
swell  about  his  usually  smiling  mouth — it  was  clear  he 
meant  to  listen,  cost  him  what  it  might.  Besides,  when 
he  had  heard  what  the  count  had  to  say,  it  was  clearly  his 
duty  to  reason  with  him.  Who  could  tell  that  he  might 
not  yield  to  such  a  process  ?  He  avowed  that  he  was  deeply 
enamored  of  Enrica — a  man  in  love  is  already  half  van- 


THE   UNIVERSO   HOTEL.  169 

quished.  Why  should  Marescotti  throw  away  his  chance 
of  happiness  for  a  phantasy — a  mere  dream  ?  There  was 
no  real  obstacle.  He  was  versatile  and  visionary,  but  the 
very  soul  of  honor.  How,  if  he — Trenta — could  bring 
Marescotti  to  see  how  much  it  would  be  to  Enrica's  advan 
tage  that  he  should  transplant  her  from  a  dreary  home,  to 
become  a  wife  beside  him  ? 

Decidedly  it  was  still  possible  that  he,  Cesare  Trenta, 
who  had  arranged  satisfactorily  so  many  most  difficult  royal 
complications,  might  yet  bring  Marescotti  to  reason,  Who 
could  tell  that  he  might  not  yet  be  spared  the  humiliation 
of  returning  to  impart  his  failure  to  the  marchesa  ?  A  re 
turn,  be  it  said,  the  good  Trenta  dreaded  not  a  little,  re 
membering  the  characteristics  of  his  dear  friend,  and  the 
responsibility  of  success  which  he  had  so  confidently  taken 
upon  himself  before  he  started. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  NEW   PHILOSOPHY. 

THERE  had  been  an  interval  of  silence,  during  which 
the  count  paced  up  and  down  the  spacious  room  medita 
tively,  each  step  sounding  distinctly  on  the  stone  floor. 
The  rugged  look  of  conscious  power  upon  his  face,  the  far 
away  glance  in  his  sombre  eyes,  showed  that  his  mind  was 
working  upon  what  he  was  about  to  say.  Presently  he 
ceased  to  walk,  reseated  himself  opposite  the  cavalierc,  and 
fixed  a  half-absent  gaze  upon  him. 

Trenta,  who  would  cheerfully  have  undergone  any 
amount  of  suffering  rather  than  listen  to  the  abominations 
he  felt  were  coming,  sat  with  half-closed  eyes,  gathered  into 
the  corner  of  the  arm-chair,  the  very  picture  of  patient 
martyrdom. 

The  count  contemplated  him  for  a  moment.  As  he  did 
so  an  expression,  half  cynical,  half  melancholy,  passed  over 
his  countenance,  and  a  faint  smile  lurked  about  the  corners 
of  his  mouth.  Then  in  a  voice  so  full  and  sweet  that  the 
ear  eagerly  drank  in  the  sound,  like  the  harmony  of  a  ca 
dence,  he  began : 

"  The  Roman  Catholic  Church,"  he  said,  "styles  itself 
divinely  constituted.  It  claims  to  be  supreme  arbiter  in 
religion  and  morals ;  supreme  even  in  measuring  intellect- 


A  NEW  PHILOSOPHY.  171 

ual  progress;  absolute  in  its  jurisdiction  over  the  state, 
and  solely  responsible  to  itself  as  to  what  the  limit  of 
that  jurisdiction  shall  be.  It  calls  itself  supreme  and  abso 
lute,  because  infallible — infallible  because  divine.  Thus 
the  vicious  circle  is  complete.  Now  entire  obedience  neces 
sarily  comes  into  collision  with  every  species  of  freedom — 
nay,  it  is  in  itself  antagonistic  to  freedom — freedom  of 
thought,  freedom  of  action — specially  antagonistic  to  na 
tional  freedom." 

"The  supremacy  of  the  pope  (the  Holy  Father),"  put 
in  Trenta,  meekly ;  he  crossed  himself  several  times  in 
rapid  succession,  looking  afterward  as  if  it  had  been  a 
great  consolation  to  him. 

"  The  supremacy  of  the  pope,"  repeated  the  count, 
firmly,  the  shadow  of  a  smile  parting  his  lips,  "is  eternal. 
It  is  based  as  firmly  in  the  next  world  as  it  is  in  this.  It 
constitutes  a  condition  of  complete  tyranny  both  in  time 
and  in  eternity.  Now  I,"  and  the  count's  voice  rose, 
and  his  eyes  glowed,  "  I — both  in  my  public  and  private 
capacity — (call  me  Antichrist  if  you  please)."  A  visible 
shudder  passed  over  the  poor  cavaliere ;  his  eyes  closed 
altogether,  and  his  lips  moved.  (He  was  repeating  an 
Ave  Maria  Sanctissima).  "  I  abhor,  I  renounce  this  slav 
ery  ! — I  rebel  against  it ! — I  will  have  none  of  it.  Who 
shall  control  the  immortality  of  thought  ? — a  Pius,  a  Gre 
gory  ?  Ignorant  dreamers,  perjured  priests  ! — never !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  count  raised  his  right  arm,  and  circled 
it  in  the  air.  In  imagination  he  was  waving  the  flag  of 
liberty  over  a  prostrate  world. 

"  But,  alas  !  this  slavery  is  riveted  by  the  grasp  of  cen 
turies  ;  it  requires  measures  as  firm  and  uncompromising  as 
its  own  to  dislodge  it.  Now  the  pope  " — Trenta  did  not 
this  time  attempt  to  correct  Marescotti — "  the  pope  is  the 
oretically  of  no  nation,  but  in  reality  he  is  of  all  nations ; 
and  he  is  surrounded  by  a  court  of  celibate  priests,  also 


172  THE   ITALIANS. 

without  nation.  Observe,-  cavaliere — this  absolute  domin 
ion  is  attained  by  celibates  only — men  with  no  family  ties 
— no  household  influences."  (This  was  spoken,  as  it 
were,  en  parenth&se,  as  a  comment  on  the  earlier  portion 
of  the  conversation  that  had  taken  place  between  them.) 
"  Each  of  these  celibate  priests  is  the  pope's  courtier — his 
courtier  and  his  slave ;  his  slave  because  he  is  subject  to  a 
higher  law  than  the  law  of  his  own  conscience,  and  the 
law  of  his  own  country.  "Without  home  or  family,  nation 
ality  or  worldly  interest,  the  priest  is  a  living  machine,  to 
be  used  in  whatever  direction  his  tyrant  dictates.  Every 
priest,  therefore,  be  he  cardinal  or  deacon,  moves  and  acts 
the  slave  of  an  abstract  idea;  an  idea  incompatible  with 
patriotism,  humanity,  or  freedom." 

An  audible  and  deep  groan  escaped  from  the  suffering 
cavaliere  as  the  count's  voice  ceased. 

"  Now,  Cavaliere  Trenta,  mark  the  application."  As 
the  count  proceeded  with  his  argument,  his  dark  eyes,  lit 
up  with  the  enthusiasm  of  his  own  oratory,  riveted  them 
selves  on  the  arm-chair.  (It  could  not  properly  be  said 
that  his  eyes  riveted  themselves  on  Trenta,  for  he  was 
stooping  down,  his  face  covered  with  his  hands,  altogether 
insensible  to  any  possible  appeal  that  might  be  addressed 
to  him.)  "I,  Manfred!  Marescotti,  consecrated  priest  of 
the  people  " — and  the  count  drew  himself  up  to  the  full 
height  of  his  lofty  figure — "  I  am  as  devoted  to  my  cause — 
God  is  my  witness  " — and  he  raised  his  right  hand  as 
though  to  seal  a  solemn  pledge  of  truth — "  as  that  conse 
crated  renegade,  the  pope !  My  followers — and  their  name 
is  legion — believe  in  me  as  implicitly  as  do  the  tonsured 
dastards  of  the  Vatican." 

Another  ill-suppressed  groan  escaped  from  Trenta,  and 
for  a  moment  interrupted  the  count's  oration.  The  miser 
able  cavaliere  !  He  had,  indeed,  invoked  an  explanation, 
and,  cost  him  what  it  might,  he  must  abide  it.  But  he  be- 


A  NEW  PHILOSOPHY.  173 

gan  to  think  that  the  explanation  had  gone  too  far.  He 
was  sitting  there  listening  to  blasphemies.  He  was  actu 
ally  imperiling  his  own  soul.  He  was  horrified  as  he  re 
flected  that  he  might  not  obtain  absolution  when  he  con 
fessed  the  awful  language  which  was  addressed  to  him. 
Such  a  risk  was  really  greater  than  his  submission  to  eti 
quette  exacted.  There  were  bound  seven  to  that,  the  aged 
chamberlain  told  himself. 

Gracious  heavens  ! — for  him,  an  unquestioning  papalino, 
a  sincere  believer  in  papal  infallibility  and  the  temporal 
power — to  hear  the  Holy  Father  called  a  renegade,  and 
his  faithful  servants  stigmatized  as  dastards !  It  was  mon 
strous  ! 

He  secretly  resolved  that,  once  escaped  from  No.  4 
at  the  Universe  Hotel — and  he  wondered  that  a  thunder 
bolt  had  not  already  struck  the  count  dead  where  he  stood 
— he  would  never  allow  himself  to  have  any  further  inter 
course  whatever  with  him. 

"  I  have  been  elected,"  continued  the  count,  speaking 
in  the  same  emphatic  manner,  and  in  the  same  distinct  and 
harmonious  voice,  utterly  careless  or  unobservant  of  the 
conflict  of  feelings  under  which  the  cavaliere  was  struggling 
— "  head  pope,  if  you  please,  cavaliere,  so  to  call  me." — 
("  God  forbid ! "  muttered  Trenta.) — "  It  makes  my  analogy 
the  clearer — I  have  been  elected  by  thousands  of  devoted 
followers.  But  my  followers  are  not  slaves,  nor  am  I  a 
tyrant.  I  have  accepted  the  glorious  title  of  Priest  of  the 
People,  and  nothing — nothing"  the  count  repeated,  vehe 
mently,  "  shall  tempt  me  from  my  duty.  I  am  here  at  Lucca 
to  establish  a  mission — to  plant  in  this  fertile  soil  the 
sacred  banner  of  freedom — red  as  the  first  streaks  of  light 
that  lace  the  eastern  heavens ;  red  as  the  life-blood  from 
which  we  draw  our  being.  I  am  here,  under  the  protec 
tion  of  this  glorious  banner,  to  combat  the  tyranny  upon 
which  the  church  and  the  throne  are  based.  Instead  of  the 


174  THE   ITALIANS. 

fetters  of  the  past,  binding  ^mankind  in  loathsome  trammels 
of  ignorance — instead  of  the  darkness  that  broods  over  a 
subjugated  world — of  terrors  that  rend  agonized  souls  with 
horrible  tortures — I  bring  peace,  freedom,  light,  progress. 
To  the  base  ideal  of  perpetual  tyranny — both  here  and 
hereafter — I  oppose  the  pure  ideal  of  absolute  freedom — 
freedom  to  each  separate  soul  to  work  out  for  itself  its  own 
innate  convictions — freedom  to  form  its  independent  des 
tiny.  Freedom  in  state,  freedom  in  church,  freedom  in  re 
ligion,  literature,  commerce,  government — freedom  as  bound 
less  as  the  sunshine  that  fructifies  the  teeming  earth  !  Free 
dom  of  thought  necessitates  freedom  in  government.  As 
the  soul  wings  itself  toward  the  light  of  simple  truth,  so 
should  the  body  politic  aspire  to  perfect  freedom.  This 
can  only  be  found  in  a  pure  republic ;  a  republic  where 
all  men  are  equal — where  each  man  lives  for  the  other  in  liv 
ing  for  himself — where  brother  cleaves  to  brother  as  his  own 
flesh — family  is  knit  to  family — one,  yet  many — one,  yet  of 
all  nations ! " 

"  Communism,  in  fact !  "  burst  forth  the  cavaliere.  His 
piping  voice,  now  hoarse  with  rage,  quivered.  "  You  are 
here  to  form  a  communistic  association !  God  help  us  ! " 

"  I  care  not  what  you  call  it,"  cried  the  count,  with  a 
rising  passion.  "  My  faith,  my  hope,  is  the  ideal  of  free 
dom  as  opposed  to  the  abstraction  of  hierarchical  super 
stition  and  monarchic  tyranny.  What  are  popes,  kings, 
princes,  and  potentates,  to  me  who  deem  all  men  equal  ? 
It  is  by  a  republic  alone  that  we  can  regenerate  our  be 
loved,  our  unfortunate  Italy,  now  tossed  between  a  de 
bauched  monarch — a  traitor,  who  yielded  Savoy — an  effete 
Parliament — a  pack  of  lawyers  who  represent  nothing  but 
their  own  interests,  and  a  pope — the  recreant  of  Gaeta ! 
The  sooner  our  ideas  are  circulated,  the  sooner  they  will 
permeate  among  the  masses.  Already  the  harvest  has  been 
great  elsewhere.  I  am  here  to  sow,  to  reap,  and  to  gather. 


A   NEW  PHILOSOPHY.  175 

For  this  end — mark  me,  cavaliere,  I  entreat  you — I  am 
here,  for  none  other." 

Here  the  triumphant  patriot  became  suddenly  embar 
rassed.  He  stopped,  hesitated,  stopped  again,  took  breath, 
and  sighed ;  then  turned  full  upon  Trenta,  in  order  to  ob 
tain  some  response  to  the  appeal  he  had  addressed  to  him. 
But  again  Trenta,  sullenly  silent,  had  buried  himself  in  the 
depths  of  the  arm-chair,  and  was,  so  to  say,  invisible. 

"  For  this  end "  (a  mournful  cadence  came  into  the 
count's  voice  when  he  at  length  proceeded)  "  I  am  ready 
to  sacrifice  my  life.  My  life  ! — what  is  that  ?  I  am  ready 
to  sacrifice  my  love — ay,  my  love — the  love  of  the  only 
woman  who  fulfills  the  longings  of  my  poetic  soul." 

The  count  ceased  speaking.  The  fair  Enrica,  with  her 
tender  smile,  and  patient,  chastened  loveliness — Enrica,  as 
he  had  imagined  her,  the  type  of  the  young  Madonna,  was 
before  him.  No,  Enrica  could  never  be  his ;  no  child  of 
his  would  ever  be  encircled  by  those  soft,  womanly  arms ! 
With  a  strong  effort  to  shake  off  the  feeling  which  so 
deeply  moved  him,  the  count  continued : 

"  In  the  boundless  realms  of  ideal  philosophy  " — his 
noble  features  were  at  this  moment  lit  up  into  the  living 
image  of  that  hero  he  so  much  resembled — "  man  grapples 
hand  to  hand  with  the  unseen.  There  are  no  limits  to  his 
glorious  aspirations.  He  is  as  God  himself.  He,  too,  be 
comes  a  Creator ;  and  a  new  and  purer  world  forms  beneath 
his  hand." 

"  Have  you  done  ? "  asked  Trenta,  looking  up  out  of 
the  arm-chair.  He  was  so  thoroughly  overcome,  so  sub 
dued,  he  could  have  wept.  From  the  very  commencement 
of  the  count's  explanation,  he  had  felt  that  it  was  not 
given  to  him  to  combat  his  opinions.  If  he  could,  he  was 
not  sure  that  he  would  have  ventured  to  do  so.  "Let 
pitch  alone,"  says  the  proverb. 

Now  Trenta,  of  a  most  cleanly  nature,  morally  and 


176  THE  ITALIANS. 

physically — abhorred  pitch,  especially  such  pitch  as  this. 
He  had  long  looked  upon  Count  Marescotti  as  an  atheist, 
a  visionary — but  he  had  never  conceived  him  capable  of 
establishing  an  organized  system  of  rebellion  and  commu 
nism.  At  Lucca,  too !  It  was  horrible !  By  some  means 
such  an  incendiary  must  be  got  rid  of.  Next  to  the  foul 
Fiend  himself  established  in  the  city,  he  could  conceive 
nothing  more  awful !  It  was  a  Providence  that  Marescotti 
could  not  marry  Enrica  !  He  should  tell  the  marchesa  so. 
Such  sophistry  might  have  perverted  Enrica  also.  It  was 
more  than  probable  that,  instead  of  reforming  him,  she 
might  have  fallen  a  victim  to  his  wickedness.  This  reflec 
tion  was  infinitely  comforting  to  the  much-enduring  ca- 
valiere.  It  lightened  also  much  of  his  apprehension  in 
approaching  the  marchesa,  as  the  bearer  of  the  count's  re 
fusal. 

To  Trenta's  question  as  to  "  whether  he  had  done," 
Marescotti  had  promptly  replied  with  easy  courtesy,  "  Cer 
tainly,  if  you  desire  it.  But,  my  dear  cavaliere,"  he  went 
on  to  say,  speaking  in  his  usual  manner,  "you  will  now 
understand  why,  cost  me  what  it  may,  I  cannot  marry. 
Never,  never,  I  confess,  have  I  been  so  fiercely  tempted ! 
But  the  pang  is  past  1 "  And  he  swept  his  hand  over  his 
brow.  "Marriage  with  me  is  impossible.  You  will  un 
derstand  this." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  quite  agree  with  you,  count,"  put  in  Tren- 
ta — sideways,  as  it  were.  He  was  rejoiced  to  find  he  had 
any  common  standing-point  left  with  Marescotti.  "  I  agree 
with  you — marriage  is  quite  impossible.  I  hope,  too,"  he 
added,  recovering  himself  a  little,  with  a  faint  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  "  you  will  find  your  mission  at  Lucca  equally  im 
possible.  San  Riccardo  grant  it!"  And  the  old  man 
crossed  himself,  and  secretly  fingered  an  image  of  the  Vir 
gin  he  wore  about  his  neck. 

"  Putting  aside  the  sacred  office  with  which  I  am  in- 


A  NEW  PHILOSOPHY.  177 

vested,"  resumed  the  count,  without  noticing  Trenta's  ob 
servation,  "  no  wife  could  sympathize  with  rne.  It  would 
be  a  case  of  Byron  over  again.  What  agony  it  would  be 
to  me  to  see  the  exquisite  Enrica  unable  to  understand 
me  I  A  poet,  a  mystic,  I  am  only  fit  to  live  alone.  My 
path  " — and  a  far-away  look  came  into  his  eyes — "  my  path 
lies  alone  upon  the  mountains — alone  !  alone ! "  he  added 
sorrowfully,  and  a  tear  trembled  on  his  eyelid. 

"Then  why,  may  I  ask  you,"  retorted  Trenta,  with 
energy,  raising  himself  upright  in  the  arm-chair,  "  why  did 
you  mislead  me  by  such  passionate  language  to  Enrica  ? 
Recall  the  Guinigi  Tower,  your  attitude — your  glances — I 
must  say,  Count  Marescotti,  I  consider  your  conduct  unpar 
donable — quite  unpardonable." 

Trenta's  face  and  forehead  were  scarlet,  his  steely  blue 
eyes  were  rounded  to  their  utmost  width,  and,  as  far  as 
such  mild  eyes  could,  they  glared  at  the  count. 

"  You  have  entirely  misled  me.  As  to  your  political 
opinions,  I  have,  thank  God,  nothing  to  do  with  them ;  that 
is  your  affair.  But  in  this  matter  of  Enrica  you  have  un 
justifiably  misled  me.  I  shall  not  forgive  you  in  a  hurry,  I 
can  tell  you."  There  was  a  rustling  of  anger  all  over  the 
cavaliere,  as  the  leaves  of  the  forest-trees  rustle  before  the 
breath  of  the  coming  tempest. 

"  My  admiration  for  women,"  replied  the  count,  "  has 
hitherto  been  purely  aesthetic.  You,  cavaliere,  cannot  un 
derstand  the  discrepancies  of  an  artistic  nature.  Women 
have  been  to  me  heretofore  as  beautiful  abstractions.  I 
have  adored  them  as  I  adore  the  works  of  the  great  masters. 
I  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  plucking  a  virgin  from  the 
canvas — a  Venus  from  her  pedestal,  as  of  appropriating  one 
of  them.  Enrica  Guinigi " — there  was  a  tender  inflection 
in  Count  Marescotti's  voice  whenever  he  named  her,  an  in 
voluntary  bending  of  the  head  that  was  infinitely  touching 
— "  Enrica  Guinigi  is  an  exception.  I  could  have  loved  her 


178  THE  ITALIANS. 

— ah !  she  is  worthy  of  all  love !  Her  soul  is  as  rare  as 
her  person.  I  read  in  the  depths  of  her  plaintive  eyes  the 
trust  of  a  child  and  the  fortitude  of  a  heroine.  If  I  dared 
to  give  these  thoughts  utterance,  it  was  because  I  knew  she 
loved  another  !  " 

"  Loved  another  ?  "  screamed  Trenta,  losing  all  self-con 
trol  and  tottering  to  his  feet.  "  Loved  another  ?  "  he  re 
peated,  every  feature  working  convulsively.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

Marescotti  rose  also.  Was  it  possible  that  Trenta  could 
be  in  ignorance,  he  asked  himself,  hurriedly,  as  he  stared 
at  the  aged  chamberlain,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Loved  another  ?  You  are  mad,  Count  Marescotti,  I 
alwa}rs  said  so — mad  !  mad  ! "  Trenta  gasped  for  breath. 
He  was  hardly  able  to  articulate. 

The  count  bowed  to  him  ironically. 

"  Calm  yourself,  cavaliere,"  he  said,  haughtily,  measur 
ing  from  head  to  foot  the  plump  little  cavaliere,  who  stood 
before  him  literally  panting  with  rage.  "  There  is  no  need 
for  violence.  You  and  the  marchesa  must  have  known  of 
this.  I  shuddered,  when  I  thought  that  Enrica  might  have 
been  driven  into  acquiescence  with  your  proposal  against 
her  will.  I  love  her  too  much  to  have  permitted  it." 

The  cavaliere  could  with  difficulty  bring  himself  to  allow 
Marescotti  to  finish.  He  was  too  furious  to  take  in  the  full 
sense  of  what  he  said.  His  throat  was  parched. 

"  You  must  answer  to  me  for  this  ! "  Trenta  could  barely 
articulate.  His  voice  was  dry  and  hoarse.  "  You  must — 
you  shall.  You  have  refused  Enrica,  now  you  insult  her. 
I  demand — I  demand  satisfaction.  No  excuse — no  excuse ! " 
he  shouted.  And  seeing  that  Marescotti  drew  back  toward 
the  window,  the  cavaliere  pressed  closer  upon  him,  stamped 
his  foot  upon  the  floor,  and  raised  his  clinched  fist  as  near 
to  the  count's  face  as  his  height  permitted. 

Had  the  official  sword  hung  at  Trenta's  side,  he  would 


A  NEW   PHILOSOPHY.  179 

undoubtedly  have  drawn  it  at  that  moment  and  attacked 
him.  In  the  defense  of  Enrica  he  forgot  his  age — he  forgot 
every  thing.  His  very  voice  had  changed  into  a  manly 
barytone.  In  the  absence  of  his  sword,  Trenta  was  evi 
dently  about  to  strike  Marescotti.  As  he  advanced,  the 
other  retreated. 

A  hot  flush  overspread  the  count's  face  for  an  instant, 
then  it  faded  out,  and  grew  pale  and  rigid.  He  remem 
bered  the  cavaliere's  great  age,  and  checked  himself.  To 
avoid  him,  the  count  retreated  to  the  farthest  limit  of  the 
room,  hastily  seized  a  chair,  and  barricaded  himself  behind 
it.  "  I  will  not  fight  you,  Cavaliere  Trenta,"  he  answered, 
speaking  with  calmness. 

"  Ah,  coward !  "  screamed  Trenta,  "  would  you  dishonor 
me?" 

"  Cavaliere  Trenta,  this  is  folly,"  said  the  count,  crossing 
his  arms  on  his  breast.  "  Strike  me  if  you  please,"  he 
added,  seeing  that  Trenta  still  threatened  him.  "  Strike 
me ;  I  shall  not  return  it.  On  my  honor  as  a  gentleman, 
what  I  have  said  is  true.  Had  you,  cavaliere,  been  a 
younger  man,  you  must  have  heard  it  in  the  city,  at  the 
club,  the  theatre ;  it  is  known  everywhere." 

"  What  is  known  ?  "  asked  Trenta,  hoarsely,  standing 
suddenly  motionless,  the  flush  of  rage  dying  out  of  his 
countenance,  and  a  look  of  helpless  suffering  taking  its 
place. 

"  That  Count  Nobili  loves  Enrica  Guinigi,"  answered 
Marescotti,  abruptly. 

Like  a  shot  Baldassare's  words  rose  to  Trent a's  remem 
brance.  The  poor  old  chamberlain  turned  very  white.  He 
quivered  like  a  leaf,  and  clung  to  the  table  for  support. 

"  Pardon  me,  oh  !  pardon  me  a  thousand  times,  if  I  have 
pained  you,"  exclaimed  the  count ;  he  left  the  place  where 
he  was  standing,  threw  his  arms  round  Trenta,  and  placed 
him  with  careful  tenderness  on  a  seat.  His  generous  heart 


180  THE  ITALIANS. 

upbraided  him  bitterly  for  having  allowed  himself  for  an 
instant  to  be  heated  by  the  cavaliere's  reproaches.  "  How 
could  I  possibly  imagine  you  did  not  know  all  this  ?  "  he 
asked,  in  the  gentlest  voice. 

Trenta  groaned. 

"  Take  me  home,  take  me  home,"  he  murmured,  faintly. 
"  Gran  Dio  !  the  marchesa  !  the  marchesa  1  "  He  clasped 
his  hands,  then  let  them  fall  upon  his  knees. 

"But  what  real  obstacle  can  there  be  to  a  marriage 
with  Count  Nobili  ?  " 

"T  cannot  speak,"  answered  the  cavalisre,  almost  in- 
audibly,  trying  to  rise.  "  Every  obstacle."  And  he  sank 
back  helplessly  on  the  chair. 

Count  Marescotti  took  a  silver  flask  from  a  drawer,  and 
offered  him  a  cordial.  Trenta  swallowed  it  with  the  sub- 
missiveness  of  a  child.  The  count  picked  up  his  cane,  and 
placed  it  in  his  hand.  The  cavaliere  mechanically  grasped 
it,  rose,  and  moved  feebly  toward  the  door. 

"  Let  me  go,"  he  said,  faintly,  addressing  Marescotti, 
who  urged  him  to  remain.  "  Let  me  go.  I  must  inform 
the  marchesa.  I  must  see  Enrica.  Ah  1  if  you  knew  all ! " 
he  whispered,  looking  piteously  at  the  count.  "  My  poor 
Enrica ! — my  pretty  lamb !  Who  can  have  led  her  astray  ? 
How  can  it  have  happened  ?  I  must  go — go  at  once.  I 
am  better  now.  Yes — give  me  your  arm,  count,  I  am  a 
little  weak.  I  thank  you — it  supports  me." 

The  door  of  No.  4  was  at  last  opened.  The  cavaliere 
descended  the  stairs  very  slowly,  supported  by  Marescotti, 
whose  looks  expressed  the  deepest  compassion.  A  fiacre 
was  called  from  the  piazza. 

"  The  Palazzo  Trenta,"  said  Count  Marescotti  to  the 
driver,  handing  in  the  cavaliere. 

"  No,  no,"  he  faintly  interrupted,  "  not  there.  To  Casa 
Guinigi.  I  must  instantly  see  the  marchesa,"  whispered 
Trenta  in  the  count's  ear. 


A  NEW  PHILOSOPHY.  181 

The  fiacre  containing  the  unhappy  chamberlain  drove 
from  the  door,  and  plunged  into  a  dark  street  toward  the 
cathedral. 

Count  Marescotti  stood  for  some  minutes  in  the  door 
way,  gazing  after  it.  The  full  blaze  of  a  hot  September 
sun  played  round  his  uncovered  head,  lighting  it  up  as  with 
a  glory.  Then  he  turned,  and,  slowly  reascending  the 
stairs  to  No.  4,  opened  his  door,  and  locked  it  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  MAKCIIESA'S  PASSION. 

THE  Marchesa  Guinigi  dined  early.  She  had  just  fin 
ished  when  a  knock  at  the  door  of  her  squalid  sitting-room 
on  the  second  story,  with  the  pea-green  walls  and  shabby 
furniture,  aroused  her  from  what  was  the  nearest  approach 
to  a  nap  in  which  she  ever  indulged.  In  direct  opposition 
to  Italian  habits,  she  maintained  that  sleeping  in  the  day 
was  not  only  lazy,  but  pernicious  to  health.  As  the  mar- 
chesa  did  not  permit  herself  to  be  lulled  by  the  morphitic 
influences  of  those  long,  dreary  days  of  an  Italian  summer, 
which  must  perforce  be  passed  in  closed  and  darkened 
chambers,  and  in  a  stifling  atmosphere,  she  resolutely  set 
her  face  against  any  one  in  her  palace  enjoying  this  national 
luxury. 

At  the  hottest  moment  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  in 
the  dog-days,  when  the  rays  of  a  scalding  sun  pour  down 
upon  roof  and  wall  and  tower  like  molten  lead,  searching 
out  each  crack  and  cranny  with  cruel  persistence,  the  mar- 
chesa  was  wont  stealthily  to  descend  into  the  very  bowels, 
as  it  were,  of  that  great  body  corporate,  the  Guinigi  Palace 
— to  see  with  her  own  eyes  if  her  orders  were  obeyed. 
With  hard  words,  and  threats  of  instant  dismissal,  she 
aroused  her  sleeping  household.  No  refuge  could  hide  an 


THE  MARCHESA'S  PASSION.  183 

offender — no  hole,  however  dark,  could  conceal  so  much  as 
a  kitchen-boy. 

The  marchesa's  eye  penetrated  everywhere.  From 
garret  to  cellar  she  knew  the  dimensions  of  every  cupboard 
— the  capacity  of  each  nook — the  measure  of  the  very  walls. 
Woe  to  the  unlucky  sleeper !  his  slumbers  from  that  hour 
were  numbered ;  she  watched  him  as  if  he  had  committed 
a  crime. 

When  the  marchesa,  as  I  have  said,  was  aroused  by  a 
knock,  she  sat  up  stiffly,  and  rubbed  her  eyes  before  she 
would  say,  "  Enter."  When  she  spoke  the  word,  the  door 
slowly  opened,  and  Cavaliere  Trenta  stood  before  her. 
Never  had  he  presented  himself  in  such  an  abject  condition  ; 
he  was  panting  for  breath ;  he  leaned  heavily  on  his  gold- 
headed  cane ;  his  snowy  hair  hung  in  disorder  about  his 
forehead,  deep  wrinkles  had  gathered  on  his  face  ;  his  eyes 
were  sunk  in  their  sockets,  and  his  white  lips  twitched 
nervously,  showing  his  teeth. 

"  Cristo  1 "  exclaimed  the  marchesa,  fixing  her  keen  eyes 
upon  him,  "  }'ou  are  going  to  have  a  fit ! " 

Trenta  shook  his  head  slowly. 

The  marchesa  pulled  a  chair  to  her  side.  The  cavaliere 
sank  into  it  with  a  sigh  of  exhaustion,  put  his  hand  into 
his  pocket,  drew  out  his  handkerchief,  placed  it  before  his 
eyes,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Trenta — Cesarino  !  " — and  the  marchesa  rose,  laid  her 
long,  white  fingers  on  his  shoulder — it  was  a  cruel  hand, 
spite  of  its  symmetry  and  aristocratic  whiteness — "  what 
does  this  mean  ?  Speak,  speak !  I  hate  mystification.  I 
order  you  to  speak!"  she  added,  imperiously.  "Have 
you  seen  Count  Marescotti  ?  " 

Trenta  nodded. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?     Is  the  marriage  arranged  ?  " 

Trenta  shook  his  head.  If  his  life  had  depended  upon 
it  he  could  not  have  uttered  a  single  word  at  that  moment. 


184  THE  ITALIANS. 

His  sobs  choked  him.  Tears  ran  down  his  aged  cheeks, 
moistening  the  wrinkles  and  furrows  now  so  apparent.  He 
was  iti  such  a  piteous  condition  that  even  the  marchesa  was 
softened  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  If  all  this  is  because  the  marriage  with  Count  Mare, 
scotti  has  failed,  you  are  a  fool,  Trenta !  a  fool,  do  you 
hear?"  And  she  leaned  over  him,  tightened  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  actually  shook  him. 

Trenta  submitted  passively. 

"  On  the  whole,  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  Do  you  hear? 
You  talked  me  over,  Cesarino ;  I  have  repented  it  ever 
since.  Count  Marescotti  is  not  the  man  I  should  have 
selected  for  raising  up  heirs  to  the  Guinigi.  Now  don't 
irritate  me,"  she  continued,  with  a  disdainful  glance  at 
the  cavaliere.  "  Have  done  with  this  folly.  Do  you 
hear?" 

"  Enrica,  Enrical"  groaned  Trenta,  who,  always  accus 
tomed  to  obey  her,  began  wiping  his  eyes — they  would, 
however,  keep  overflowing — "  O  marchesa !  how  can  I 
tell  you?" 

"  Tell  me  what  ?  "  demanded  the  marchesa,  sternly. 

Her  breath  came  short  and  quick,  her  thin  face  grew 
set  and  rigid.  Like  a  veteran  war-horse,  she  scented  the 
battle  from  afar ! 

"  Ah  !  if  you  only  knew  all ! "  And  a  great  spasm 
passed  over  the  cavaliere's  frame.  "  You  must  prepare 
yourself  for  the  worst." 

The  marchesa  laughed — a  short,  contemptuous  laugh — 
and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Enrica,  Enrica — what  can  she  do  ? — a  child  !  She 
cannot  compromise  me,  or  my  name." 

"  Enrica  has  compromised  both,"  cried  Trenta,  roused 
at  last  from  his  paroxysm  of  grief.  "Enrica  has  more 
than  compromised  it ;  she  has  compromised  all  the  Guinigi 
that  ever  lived — you,  the  palace,  herself — every  one.  En- 


THE  MARCHESA'S  PASSION.  185 

rica  has  a  lover ! "     The  marchesa  bounded  from  her  chair ; 
her  face  turned  livid  in  the  waning  light; 

"  Who  told  you  this  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  strange,  hollow 
voice,  without  turning  her  eyes  or  moving  a  muscle  of  her 
face. 

"  Count  Marescotti,"  answered  Trenta,  meekly. 

He  positively  cowered  beneath  the  pent-up  wrath  of 
the  marchesa. 

"  Who  is  the  man  ?  " 

"  Nobili." 

"  What !— Count  Nobili  ?" 

"Yes,  Count  Nobili." 

With  a  great  effort  she  commanded  herself,  and  contin 
ued  interrogating  Trenta. 

"  How  did  Marescotti  hear  it  ?  " 

"  From  common  report.     It  is  known  all  over  Lucca." 

"  Was  this  the  reason  that  Count  Marescotti  declined 
to  marry  my  niece  ?  " 

The  marchesa  spoke  in  the  same  strange  tone,  but  she 
fixed  her  eyes  savagely  on  Trenta,  so  as  to  be  able  to  con 
vince  herself  how  far  he  might  dare  to  equivocate. 

"  That  was  a  principal  reason,"  replied  the  cavaliere,  in 
a  faltering  voice  ;  "  but  there  were  others." 

"  What  are  the  others  to  me  ?  The  dishonor  of  my 
niece  is  sufficient." 

There  was  a  desperate  composure  about  the  marchesa, 
more  terrible  than  passion. 

"  Her  dishonor  !  God  and  all  the  saints  forbid  !  "  re 
torted  Trenta,  clasping  his  hands.  "Marescotti  did  not 
speak  of  dishonor." 

"But  I  speak  of  dishonor!"  slirieked  the  marchesa, 
and  the  pent-up  rage  within  her  flashed  out  over  her  face 
like  a  tongue  of  fire.  "  Dishonor  ! — the  vilest,  basest  dis 
honor  !  What  do  I  care  " — and  she  stamped  her  foot  loud 
ly  on  the  brick  floor — "  what  do  I  care  what  Nobili  has 


186  THE   ITALIANS. 

done  to  her  ?  By  that  one  fact  of  loving  him  she  has  soiled 
this  sacred  roof."  The  marchesa's  eyes  wandered  wildly 
round  the  room.  "  She  has  soiled  the  name  I  bear.  I  will 
cast  her  forth  into  the  street  to  beg — to  starve  ! " 

And  as  the  words  fell  from  her  lips  she  stretched  out 
her  long  arm  and  bony  finger  as  in  a  withering  curse. 

"  But,  ha !  ha ! " — and  her  terrible  voice  echoed  through 
the  empty  room — "  I  forgot.  Count  Nobili  loves  her ;  he 
will  keep  her — in  luxury,  too — and  in  a  Guinigi  palace  ! " 
She  hissed  out  these  last  words.  "  She  has  learned  her 
way  there  already.  Let  her  go — go  instantly,"  the  mar 
chesa's  hand  was  on  the  bell.  "  Let  her  go,  the  soft-voiced 
viper ! " 

The  transport  of  fury  which  possessed  the  marchesa 
had  had  the  effect  of  completely  recalling  Trenta  to  him 
self.  For  his  great  age,  Trenta  possessed  extraordinary 
recuperative  powers,  both  of  body  and  mind.  Not  only 
had  he  so  far  recovered  while  the  marchesa  had  been  speak 
ing  as  to  arrange  his  hair  and  his  features,  and  to  smoothe 
the  creases  of  his  official  coat  into  something  of  their 
habitual  punctilious  neatness,  but  he  had  had  time  to  re 
flect.  Unless  he  could  turn  the  marchesa  from  her  dread 
ful  purpose,  Enrica  (still  under  all  circumstances  his  be 
loved  child)  would  infallibly  be  turned  into  the  street  by 
her  remorseless  aunt. 

At  the  moment  that  the  marchesa  had  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  bell,  Trenta  darted  forward  and  tore  it  from  her 
hand. 

"  For  the  love  of  the  Virgin,  pause  before  you  commit 
so  horrible  an  act !  " 

So  sudden  had  been  his  movement,  so  unwonted  his 
energy,  that  the  marchesa  was  checked  in  the  very  climax 
of  her  passion. 

"  If  you  have  no  mercy  on  a  child  that  you  have  reared 
at  your  side,"  exclaimed  Trenta,  laying  his  hand  on  hers, 


TUB  MARCHESA'S  PASSION.  18? 

"  spare  yourself,  your  name,  your  house,  such  a  scandal ! 
Is  it  for  this  that  you  cherish  the  name  of  the  great  Paolo 
Guinigi,  whose  acts  were  acts  of  clemency  and  wisdom  ? 
Is  it  for  this  you  honor  the  memory  of  Castruccio  Castra- 
cani,  who  was  called  the  '  father  of  the  people  ?  '  Bethink 
you,  marchesa,  that  they  lived  under  this  very  roof.  You 
dare  not — no,  not  even  you — dare  not  tarnish  their  mem 
ories  !  Call  Enrica  here.  It  is  the  barest  justice  that  the 
accused  should  be  heard.  Ask  her  what  she  has  done? 
Ask  her  what  has  passed  ?  How  she  has  met  Count  Nobili  ? 
Until  an  hour  ago  I  could  have  sworn  she  did  not  even 
know  him." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  burst  out  the  marchesa,  "  so  could  I.  How 
did  she  come  to  know  him  ?  " 

"  That  is  precisely  what  we  must  learn,"  continued 
Trenta,  eagerly  seizing  on  the  slightest  abatement  of  the 
marchesa's  wrath.  "  That  is  what  we  must  ask  her.  Mar 
chesa,  in  common  decency,  you  cannot  put  your  own  niece 
out  of  your  house  without  seeing  her  and  hearing  her  ex 
planation." 

"  You  may  call  her,  if  you  please,"  answered  the  mar 
chesa,  with  a  look  of  dogged  rage ;  "  but  I  warn  you, 
Cesare  Trenta,  if  she  avows  her  love  for  Nobili  in  my 
presence,  I  shall  esteem  that  in  itself  the  foulest  crime  she 
can  commit.  If  she  avows  it,  she  leaves  my  house  to-night. 
Let  her  die ! — I  care  not  what  becomes  of  her !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
ENRICA'S  TKIAL. 

THE  Cavaliere  Trenta,  without  an  instant's  delay, 
seized  the  bell  and  rang  it.  The  broken-down  retainer,  in 
his  suit  of  well-worn  livery,  shuffled  in  through  the  ante 
room. 

"  What  did  the  excellency  command  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
dreary  voice,  as  the  marchesa  did  not  address  him. 

"  Tell  the  signorina  that  the  Marchesa  Guinigi  desires 
her  presence  immediately,"  answered  the  cavaliere,  prompt 
ly.  He  would  not  give  her  an  opportunity  of  speaking. 

"  Her  excellency  shall  be  obeyed,"  replied  the  servant, 
still  addressing  himself  to  the  marchesa.  He  bowed,  then 
glided  noiselessly  from  the  room. 

A  door  is  heard  to  open,  then  to  shut ;  a  bell  is  rung ; 
there  is  a  muttered  conversation  in  the  anteroom,  and  the 
sound  of  receding  footsteps ;  then  a  side-door  in  the  corner 
of  the  sitting-room  near  the  window  opens ;  there  is  the 
slight  rustle  of  a  summer  dress,  and  Enrica  stands  before 
them. 

It  is  the  same  hour  of  sunset  as  when  she  had  sat  there 
three  days  before,  knitting  beside  the  open  casement,  with 
the  twisted  marble  colonnettes  and  delicate  tracery.  The 
same  subtile  fragrance  of  the  magnolia  rises  upward  from 
the  waxy  leaves  of  the  tall  flowering  trees  growing  beneath 


ENRICA'S  TRIAL.  189 

in  the  Moorish  garden.  The  low  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
flit  upon  her  flaxen  hair,  defining  each  delicate  curl,  and 
sharply  marking  the  outline  of  her  slight  girlish  figure ;  the 
slender  waist,  the  small  hands.  Even  the  little  foot  is 
visible  under  the  folds  of  her  light  dress. 

Enrica's  face  is  in  shadow,  but,  as  she  raises  it  and 
sees  the  cavaliere  seated  beside  her  aunt,  a  quiet  smile  plays 
about  her  mouth,  and  a  gleam  of  pleasure  rises  in  her  eyes. 

What  is  it  that  makes  youth  in  Italy  so  fresh  and  beau 
tiful — so  lithe,  erect,  and  strong  ?  What  gives  that  lustre 
to  the  eye,  that  ripple  to  the  hair,  that  faultless  mould  to 
the  features,  that  mellowness  to  the  skin — like  the  ruddy 
rind  of  the  pomegranate — those  rounded  limbs  that  move 
with  sovereign  ease — that  step,  as  of  gods  treading  the 
earth  ?  Is  it  the  color  of  the  golden  skies  ?  Is  it  a  philter 
brewed  by  the  burning  sunshine  ?  or  is  it  found  in  the  deep 
shadows  that  brood  in  the  radiance  of  the  starry  night  ?  Is 
it  in  those  sounds  of  music  ever  floating  in  the  air  ?  or  in 
the  solemn  silence  of  the  primeval  chestnut-woods  ?  Does 
it  come  in  the  crackling  of  the  mountain-storm — in  the  ter 
ror  of  the  earthquake  ?  Does  it  breathe  from  the  azure 
seas  that  belt  the  classic  land — or  in  the  rippling  cadence 
of  untrodden  streams  amid  lonely  mountains  ?  Whence 
comes  it  ? — how  ? — where  ?  I  cannot  tell. 

The  marchesa  is  seated  on  her  accustomed  seat ;  her 
face  is  shaded  by  her  hand.  So  stern,  so  solemn,  is  her 
attitude  that  her  chair  seems  suddenly  turned  into  a  judg 
ment-seat. 

The  cavaliere  has  risen  at  Enrica's  entrance.  Not  dar 
ing  to  display  his  feelings  in  the  presence  of  the  marchesa, 
he  thrusts  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  stands  behind 
her,  his  head  partly  turned  away,  leaning  against  the  edge 
of  the  marble  mantel-piece.  There  is  such  absolute  silence 
in  the  room  that  the  ticking  of  a  clock  is  distinctly  heard. 
It  is  the  deadly  pause  before  the  slaughter  of  the  battle. 


190  THE  ITALIANS. 

"You  sent  for  me,  my  aunt?"  Enrica  speaks  in  a 
timid  voice,  not  moving  from  the  spot  where  she  has  en 
tered,  near  the  open  window.  "  What  is  your  pleasure  ?  " 

"  My  pleasure  !"  the  marchesa  catches  up  and  echoes 
the  words  with  a  horrible  jeer.  (She  had  been  collecting 
her  forces  for  attack ;  she  had  lashed  herself  into  a  trans 
port  of  fury.  Her  smooth,  snake-like  head  was  reared  erect; 
her  upright  figure,  too  thin  to  be  majestic,  stiffened. 
Thunder  and  lightning  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  turned  them 
on  Enrica.)  "  You  dare  to  ask  me  my  pleasure  !  You  shall 
hear  it,  lost,  miserable  girl !  Leave  this  house — go  to  your 
lover  1  Let  it  be  the  motto  of  his  low-born  race  that  a  No- 
bili  dishonored  a  Guinigi.  Go — I  wish  you  were  dead ! " 
and  she  points  with  her  finger  toward  the  door. 

Every  word  that  fell  from  the  marchesa  sounded  like  a 
curse.  As  she  speaks,  the  smiles  fade  out  of  Enrica's  face 
as  the  lurid  sunlight  fades  before  the  rising  tempest.  She 
grasps  a  chair  for  support.  Her  bosom  heaves  under  the 
folds  of  her  thin  white  dress.  Her  eyes,  which  had  fixed 
themselves  on  her  aunt,  fall  with  an  agonized  expression 
on  the  floor.  Thus  she  stands,  speechless,  motionless,  pas 
sive  ;  stunned,  as  it  were,  by  the  shock  of  the  words. 

Then  a  low  cry  of  pain  escapes  her,  a  cry  like  the  com 
plaint  of  a  dumb  animal — the  bleat  of  a  lamb  under  the 
butcher's  knife. 

"  Have  I  not  reared  you  as  my  own  child  ?  "  cries  the 
marchesa — too  excited  to  remain  silent  in  the  presence  of 
her  victim.  "  Have  you  ever  left  my  side  ?  Yet  under  my 
ancestral  roof  you  have  dared  to  degrade  yourself.  Out 
upon  you ! — Go,  go — or  with  my  own  hand  I  shall  drive 
you  into  the  street !  " 

She  starts  up,  and  is  rushing  upon  Enrica,  who  stands 
motionless  before  her,  when  Trenta  steps  forward,  puts  his 
hand  firmly  on  the  marchesa's  arm,  and  draws  her  back. 

"  You  have  called  Enrica  here,"  he  whispers,  "  to  ques- 


ENRICA'S  TRIAL.  191 

tion  her.  Do  so — do  so.  Look,  she  is  so  overcome  she 
cannot  speak,"  and  he  points  to  Enrica,  who  is  now  trem 
bling  like  an  aspen-leaf,  her  fair  head  bowed  upon  her 
bosom,  the  big  tears  trickling  down  her  white  cheeks. 

When  the  marchesa,  checked  by  Trerita,  has  ceased 
speaking,  Enrica  raises  her  heavy  eyelids  and  turns  her 
eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  upon  her  aunt.  Then  she  clasps 
her  hands — the  small  fingers  knitting  themselves  together 
with  a  grasp  of  agony — and  wrings  them.  Her  lips  move, 
but  no  sound  comes  from  them.  Something  there  is  so 
pitiful  in  this  mute  appeal — she  looks  so  slight  and  frail  in 
the  background  of  the  fading  sunlight — there  is  such  a 
depth  of  unspoken  pathos  in  every  line  of  her  young  face — 
that  the  marchesa  pauses  ;  she  pauses  ere  putting  into  ex 
ecution  her  resolve  of  turning  Enrica  herself,  with  her  own 
hands,  from  the  palace. 

A  new  sentiment  has  also  within  the  last  few  minutes 
arisen  within  her — a  sentiment  of  curiosity.  The  marchesa 
is  a  woman ;  in  many  respects  a  thorough  woman.  The 
first  flash  of  fury  once  passed,  she  feels  an  intense  longing 
to  know  how  all  this  had  come  about.  What  had  passed  ? 
How  had  Enrica  met  Nobili  ?  Whether  any  of  her  house 
hold  had  betrayed  her?  On  whom  her  just  vengeance 
shall  fall  ? 

Each  moment  that  passes  as  the  quick  thoughts  rattle 
through  her  brain,  it  seems  to  her  more  and  more  imperative 
that  she  should  inform  herself  what  had  really  happened 
under  her  roof ! 

At  this  moment  Enrica  speaks  in  a  low  voice. 

"  O  my  aunt !  I  have  done  nothing !  Indeed,  indeed," 
— and  a  great  sob  breaks  in  and  cuts  her  speech.  "  I  have 
done  nothing." 

"  What  1 "  cries  the  marchesa,  her  fury  again  roused  by 
such  a  daring  assertion.  "  What  do  you  call  nothing  ?  Do 
you  deny  that  you  love  Nobili  ?  " 


192  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  No,  my  aunt.     I  love  him — I  love  him." 

The  mention  of  Nobili's  name  gave  Enrica  courage. 
With  that  name  the  sunlit  days  of  meeting  came  back 
again.  A  gleam  of  their  divine  refraction  swam  before 
her.  Nobili — is  he  not  strong,  and  brave,  and  true?  Is 
he  not  near  at  hand?  Oh,  if  he  only  knew  her  need ! — oh, 
if  he  could  only  rush  to  her — bear  her  in  his  arms  away 
— away  to  untrodden  lands  of  love  and  bliss  where  she 
could  hide  her  head  upon  his  breast  and  be  at  peace ! 

All  this  gave  her  courage.  She  passes  her  hand  over 
her  face  and  brushes  the  tears  away.  Her  blue  eyes,  that 
shine  out  now  like  a  rent  in  a  cloudy  sky,  are  meekly  but 
fearlessly  cast  upon  her  aunt. 

"  You  dare  to  tell  me  you  love  him — you  dare  to  avow 
it  in  my  presence,  degraded  girl !  have  you  no  pride — no 
decency  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  nothing,"  Enrica  answers  in  the  same 
voice,  "  of  which  I  am  ashamed.  From  the  first  moment 
I  saw  him  I  loved  him.  I  loved — him — oh  !  how  I  loved 
him ! "  She  repeats  this  softly,  as  if  speaking  to  herself. 
An  inner  light  shines  over  her  whole  countenance.  "  And 
Nobili  loves  me.  I  know  it."  Her  voice  sounds  sweet  and 
firm.  "He  is  mine !  " 

"  Fool,  you  think  so ;  you  are  but  one  of  many  ! "  The 
marchesa,  incensed  beyond  endurance  at  her  firmness,  raises 
her  head  with  the  action  of  a  snake  about  to  spring  upon 
its  prey.  "  Dare  you  deny  that  you  are  his  mistress  ?  " 

(Could  the  marchesa  have  seen  the  cavaliere  standing 
behind  her,  at  that  moment,  and  how  those  eyes  of  his 
were  riveted  on  Enrica  with  a  look  in  which  hope,  thank 
fulness,  pity,  and  joy,  crossed  and  combated  together — 
mercy  on  us !  she  would  have  turned  and  struck  him  !) 

The  shock  of  the  words  overcame  Enrica.  She  fixes 
her  eyes  on  her  aunt  as  if  not  understanding  their  mean 
ing.  Then  a  deep  blush  covers  her  from  head  to  foot ;  she 


ENRICA'S   TRIAL.  193 

trembles  and  presses  both  her  hands  to  her  bosom  as  if  in 
pain. 

"  Spare  her,  spare  her ! "  is  heard  in  less  audible  sounds 
from  Trenta  to  the  marchesa.  The  marchesa  tosses  her 
head  defiantly. 

"  I  am  to  be  Count  Nobili's  wife,"  Enrica  says  at  last, 
in  a  faltering  voice.  "  The  Holy  Mother  is  my  witness,  I 
have  done  nothing  wrong.  I  have  met  him  in  the  cathe 
dral,  and  at  the  door  of  the  Moorish  garden.  He  has  writ, 
ten  to  me,  and  I  have  answered." 

"  Doubtless ;  and  you  have  met  him  alone  ?  "  asked  the 
marchesa,  with  a  savage  sneer. 

"  Never,  my  aunt ;  Teresa  was  always  with  me." 

"  Teresa,  curse  her !  She  shall  leave  the  house  as  naked 
as  she  came  into  it.  How  many  other  of  my  servants  did 
you  corrupt  ?  " 

"  Not  one ;  it  was  known  to  her  and  to  me  only." 

"  And  why  not  to  me,  your  guardiati  ?  why  not  to  me  ?  " 
And  the  marchesa  advances  step  by  step  toward  Enrica, 
as  the  bitter  consciousness  of  having  been  hoodwinked 
by  such  a  child  fills  her  with  fresh  rage.  "  You  have  de 
ceived  me — I  who  have  fed  and  clothed  and  nourished  you 
— I  who,  but  for  this,  would  have  endowed  you  with  all  I 
have,  bequeathed  to  you  a  name  greater  than  that  of  kings  ! 
Answer  me  this,  Enrica.  Leave  off  wringing  your  hands 
and  turning  up  your  eyes.  Answer  me  !  " 

"  My  aunt,  I  was  afraid." 

"  Afraid !  "  and  the  marchesa  laughs  a  loud  and  scornful 
laugh ;  "  you  were  not  afraid  to  meet  this  man  in  secret." 

"  No.  Fear  him  !  what  had  I  to  fear  ?  Nobili  loves 
me." 

The  word  was  spoken.     Now  she  had  courage  to  meet 

the  marchesa's  gaze  unmoved,  spite  of  the  menace  of  her 

look  and  attitude.     Enrica's  conscience  acquitted"her  of  any 

wrong  save  the  wrong  of  concealment.     "  Had  you  asked 

9 


194  THE   ITALIANS. 

me,"  she  adds,  more  timidly,  "  I  should  have  spoken.  You 
have  asked  me  now,  and  I  have  told  you." 

The  very  spirit  of  truth  spoke  in  Enrica.  Not  even 
the  marchesa  could  doubt  her.  Enrica  had  not  disgraced 
the  name  she  bore.  She  believed  her ;  but  there  was  a 
sting  behind  sharper  to  her  than  death.  That  sting  re 
mained.  Enrica  had  confessed  her  love  for  the  man  she 
hated  1 

As  to  the  cavaliere,  the  difficulty  he  experienced  at 
this  moment  in  controlling  his  feelings  amounted  to  posi 
tive  agony.  His  Enrica  is  safe !  San  Riccardo  be  thanked  ! 
She  is  safe — she  is  pure  1  Except  his  eyes,  which  glowed 
with  the  secret  ecstasy  he  felt,  he  appeared  outwardly 
as  impassive  as  a  stone.  The  marchesa  turned  and  re 
seated  herself.  There  is,  spite  of  her  violence,  an  in 
describable  majesty  about  her  as  she  sits  erect  and  firm 
upon  her  chair  in  judgment  on  her  niece.  Right  or  wrong, 
the  marchesa  is  a  woman  born  to  command. 

"  It  is  not  for  me,"  she  says,  with  lofty  composure,  "  to 
reason  with  a  love-sick  girl,  whose  mind  runs  to  the  tune  of 
her  lover's  name.  Of  all  living  men  I  abhor  Count  Nobili. 
To  love  him,  in  my  eyes,  is  a  crime — yes,  a  crime,"  she  re 
peats,  raising  her  voice,  seeing  that  Enrica  is  about  to 
speak.  "I  know  him — he  is  a  vain,  purse-proud  reprobate. 
He  has  come  and  planted  himself  like  a  mushroom  within 
our  ancient  walls.  Nor  did  this  content  him — he  has  had 
the  presumption  to  lodge  himself  in  a  Guinigi  palace.  The 
blood  in  his  veins  is  as  mud.  That  he  cannot  help,  nor  do 
I  reproach  him  for  it ;  but  he  has  forced  himself  into  our 
class — he  has  mingled  his  name  with  the  old  names  of  the 
city  ;  he  has  dared  to  speak — live — act — as  if  he  were 
one  of  us.  You,  Enrica,  are  the  last  of  the  Guinigi.  I  had 
hoped  that  a  child  I  had  reared  at  my  side  would  have 
learned  and  reflected  my  will — would  have  repaid  me  for 
years  of  care  by  her  obedience." 


ENRICA'S  TRIAL.  195 

"  O  my  aunt !  "  exclaims  Enrica,  sinking  on  h^er  knees, 
"  forgive  me — forgive  me !  I  am  ungrateful." 

"  Rise,"  cries  the  marchesa,  sternly,  not  in  the  least 
touched  by  this  outburst  of  natural  feeling.  "  I  care  not 
for  words — your  acts  show  you  have  defied  me.  The  pro 
ject  which  for  years  I  have  silently  nursed  in  my  bosom, 
waiting  for  the  fitting  time  to  disclose  it  to  you — the  pro 
ject  of  building  up  through  you  the  great  Guinigi  name." 

The  marchesa  pauses ;  she  gasps,  as  if  for  breath.  A 
quick  flush  steals  over  her  white  face,  and  for  a  moment 
she  leans  back  in  her  chair,  unable  to  proceed.  Then  she 
presses  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  on  which  the  perspiration 
had  risen  in  beads. 

"  Alas  !  I  did  not  know  it ! "  Enrica  is  now  sobbing 
bitterly.  "  Why — oh  !  why,  did  you  not  trust  me  ?  " 

In  a  strange,  weary-sounding  voice  the  marchesa  con 
tinues  : 

"  Let  us  not  speak  of  it.  Enrica" — she  turns  her  gray 
eyes  full  upon  her,  as  she  stands  motionless  in  front  of  the 
pillared  casement — "  Enrica,  you  must  choose.  Renounce 
Nobili,  or  prepare  to  enter  a  convent.  His  wife  you  can 
never  be." 

As  a  shot  that  strikes  a  brightly-plumaged  bird  full  in 
its  softly-feathered  breast,  so  did  these  dreadful  words 
strike  Enrica.  There  is  a  faint,  low  cry,  she  has  fallen 
upon  the  floor ! 

The  marchesa  did  not  move,  but,  looking  at  her  where 
she  lay,  she  slowly  shook  her  head.  Not  so  the  cavaliere. 
He  rushed  forward,  and  raised  her  tenderly  in  his  arms. 
The  tears  streamed  down  his  aged  cheeks. 

"Take  her  away!"  cried  the  marchesa;  "take  her 
away !  She  has  broken  my  heart ! " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WHAT   CAME    OF   IT. 

WHEN  Cavaliere  Trenta  returned,  after  he  had  led  away 
Enrica,  and  consigned  her  to  Teresa,  he  was  very  grave. 
As  he  crossed  the  room  toward  the  marchesa,  he  moved 
feebly,  and  leaned  heavily  on  his  stick.  Then  he  drew  a 
chair  opposite  to  her,  sat  down,  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and 
raised  his  eyes  to  her  face. 

The  marchesa  had  not  moved.  She  did  not  move  now, 
but  sat  the  picture  of  hard,  haughty  despair — a  despair 
that  would  gnaw  body  and  soul,  yet  give  no  sigh.  But 
the  cavaliere  was  now  too  much  absorbed  by  Enrica's  suffer 
ings  to  affect  even  to  take  much  heed  of  the  marchesa. 

"  This  is  a  very  serious  business,"  he  began,  abruptly. 
"  You  may  have  to  answer  for  that  girl's  life.  I  shall  be 
the  first  to  witness  against  you." 

Never  in  her  life  had  the  marchesa  heard  Cesare  Trenta 
deliver  himself  of  such  a  decided  censure  upon  her  conduct. 
His  wheedling,  coaxing  manner  was  all  gone.  He  was 
neither  the  courtier  nor  the  counselor.  He  neither  insinu 
ated  nor  suggested,  but  spoke  bluntly  out  bold  words,  and 
those  upon  a  subject  she  esteemed  essentially  her  own. 
Even  in  the  depth  of  her  despondency  it  made  a  certain 
impression  upon  her. 

She  roused  herself  and  glared  at  him,  but  there  was  no 


WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  197 

shrinking  in  his  face.'  Trenta's  clear  round  eyes,  so  honest 
and  loyal  in  their  expression,  seemed  to  pierce  her  through 
and  through.  She  fancied,  too,  that  he  contemplated  her 
with  a  sort  of  horror. 

"  You  have  accused  Enrica,"  he  continued ;  "  she  has 
cleared  herself.  You  cannot  doubt  her.  Why  do  you  con 
tinue  to  torture  her  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  affair,"  answered  the  marchesa,  doggedly. 
"  She  has  deceived  me,  and  defied  me.  She  has  outraged 
the  usages  of  society.  Is  not  that  enough  ?" 

"  You  have  brought  her  up  to  fear  you,"  interrupted 
Trenta.  "  Had  she  not  feared  you,  she  would  never  have 
deceived  you." 

"  What  is  that  to  you ?  How  dare  you  question  me?  " 
cried  the  marchesa,  the  glitter  of  passion  lighting  up  her 
eyes.  "  Is  it  not  enough  that  by  this  deception  she  has 
foiled  me  in  the  whole  purpose  of  my  life  ?  I  have  given 
her  the  choice.  Resign  Nobili,  or  a  convent." 

Saying  this,  she  closed  her  lips  tightly.  Trenta,  in  the 
heat  of  his  enthusiasm  for  Enrica,  had  gone  too  far.  He 
felt  it ;  he  hastened  to  rectify  his  error. 

"  Every  thing  that  concerns  you  and  your  family,  Mar 
chesa  Guinigi,  is  a  subject  of  overwhelming  interest  to 
me." 

Now  the  cavaliere  spoke  in  his  blandest  manner.  The 
smoothness  of  the  courtier  seemed  to  unknit  the  wrinkles 
on  his  face.  The  look  of  displeasure  melted  out  of  his  eyes, 
the  roughness  fled  from  his  voice. 

"Remember,  marchesa,  I  am  your  oldest  friend.  A 
crisis  has  arrived ;  a  scandal  may  ensue.  You  must  now 
decide." 

"  I  have  decided,"  returned  the  marchesa ;  "  that  de 
cision  you  have  heard."  And  again  her  lips  closed  her 
metically. 

"  But  permit  me.     There  are  many  considerations  that 


198  THE   ITALIANS. 

will  doubtless  present  themselves  to  you  as  necessary  in 
gredients  of  this  decision.  If  Enrica  goes  into  religion,  the 
Guinigi  race  is  doomed.  Why  should  you,  with  your  own 
hand,  destroy  the  work  of  your  life  ?  If  Enrica  will  not 
consent  to  renounce  her  engagement  to  Count  Nobili,  why 
should  she  not  marry  him  ?  There  is  no  real  obstacle  other 
than  your  will." 

No  sooner  were  these  daring  words  uttered,  than  the 
cavaliere  positively  trembled.  The  marchesa  listened  to 
them  in  ominous  silence.  Such  a  possibility  had  never  pre 
sented  itself  for  a  instant  to  her  imagination.  She  turned 
slowly  round,  pressed  her  hands  tightly  on  her  knees,  and 
darkly  eyed  him. 

"  You  think  that  I  should  consent  to  such  a  marriage  ?  " 
she  asked  in  a  deep  voice,  a  mocking  smile  upon  her  lips. 

"  I  think,  marchesa,  that  you  should  sacrifice  every 
thing — yes — every  thing."  And  Trenta,  feeling  himself 
on  safe  ground,  repeated  the  word  with  an  audacity  that 
would  have  surprised  those  who  only  knew  him  in  the 
polite  details  of  ordinary  life.  "  I  think  that  you  should 
sacrifice  every  thing  to  the  interests  of  your  house." 

This  was  hitting  the  marchesa  home.  She  felt  it  and 
winced ;  but  her  resolution  was  unshaken. 

"  Did  I  not  know  that  you  are  descended  from  a  line  as 
ancient,  though  not  so  illustrious  as  my  own,  I  should 
think  I  was  listening  to  a  Jew  peddler  of  Leghorn,"  she  re 
plied,  with  insolent  cynicism. 

The  cavaliere  felt  deeply  offended,  but  had  the  pres 
ence  of  mind  to  affect  a  smile,  as  though  what  she  had  said 
was  an  excellent  joke. 

"Nobili  shall  never  mix  his  blood  with  the  Guinigi — I 
swear  it !  Rather  let  our  name  die  out  from  the  land." 

She  raised  both  her  hands  in  the  twilight  to  ratify  the 
imprecation  she  had  hurled  upon  her  race.  Her  voice  died 
away  into  the  corner  of  the  darkening  room ;  her  thoughts 


WHAT   CAME   OF   IT.  199 

wandered.  She  sat  in  spirit  upon  the  seigneurial  throne, 
below,  in  the  presence-chamber.  Should  Nobili  sit  there, 
on  that  hallowed  seat  of  her  ancestors? — the  old  Lombard 
palace  call  him  master,  living — gather  his  bones  with  their 
ashes,  dead  ? — Never !  Better  far  moulder  into  ruin  as 
they  had  mouldered.  Had  she  not  already  permitted  her 
self  to  be  too  much  influenced  ?  She  had  offered  Enrica  in 
marriage  to  Count  Marescotti,  and  he  had  refused  her — re 
fused  her  niece ! 

Suddenly  she  shook  off  the  incubus  of  these  thoughts 
and  turned  toward  Trenta.  He  had  been  watching  her 
anxiously. 

"  I  can  never  forgive  Enrica,"  she  said.  "  She  may  not 
have  disgraced  herself — that  matters  little — but  she  has 
disgraced  me.  She  must  enter  a  convent ;  until  then  I 
will  allow  her  to  remain  in  my  house." 

"  Exactly,"  burst  in  Trenta,  again  betrayed  into  undue 
warmth  by  this  concession. 

The  cavalicre  was  old ;  he  had  seen  that  life  revolves 
itself  strangely  in  a  circle,  from  which  we  may  diverge, 
but  from  which  we  seldom  disentangle  ourselves.  Desper 
ate  resolves  are  taken,  tragedies  are  planned,  but  Fate  or 
Providence  intervenes.  The  old  balance  pendulates  again 
— the  foot  falls  into  the  familiar  step.  Death  comes  to  cut 
the  Gordian  knot.  The  grave-sod  covers  all  that  is  left, 
and  the  worm  feeds  on  the  busy  brain. 

As  a  man  of  the  world,  Trenta  was  a  profound  believer 
in  the  chapter  of  accidents. 

"  I  will  not  put  Enrica  out  of  my  house,"  resumed  the 
marchesa,  gazing  at  him  suspiciously.  (Trenta  seemed, 
she  thought,  wonderfully  interested  in  Enrica's  fate.  She 
had  noticed  this  interest  once  before.  She  did  not  like  it. 
What  was  Enrica  to  him  ?  Trenta  was  her  friend.)  "  But 
she  shall  remain  on  one  condition  only  —  Nobili's  name 
must  never  be  mentioned.  You  can  inform  her  of  this, 


200  THE  ITALIANS. 

as  you  have  taken  already  so  much  upon  yourself.  Do  you 
hear?" 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  answered  the  chamberlain  with 
alacrity.  "  You  shall  be  obeyed.  I  will  answer  for  it — 
excellent  marchesa,  you  are  right,  always  right " — and  he 
stooped  down  and  gently  took  her  thin  fingers  in  his  fat 
hands,  and  touched  them  with  his  lips. 

"  I  will  cause  no  scandal,"  she  continued,  withdrawing 
her  hand.  "  Once  in  a  convent,  Enrica  can  harm  no  one." 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  responded  Trenta,  "  and  the  fam 
ily  will  become  extinct.  This  palace  and  its  precious  heir 
looms  will  be  sold." 

The  marchesa  put  out  her  hand  with  silent  horror. 

"  It  is  the  case  with  so  many  of  our  great  families,"  con 
tinued  the  impassable  Trenta.  "  Now,  on  the  other  hand, 
Enrica  may  possibly  change  her  mind  ;  Nobili  may  change 
his  mind.  Circumstances  quite  unforeseen  may  occur — who 
can  answer  for  circumstances  ?  " 

The  marchesa  listened  silently.  This  was  always  a 
good  sign ;  she  was  too  obstinate  to  confess  herself  con 
vinced.  But,  spite  of  her  prejudices,  her  natural  shrewd 
ness  forbade  her  to  reject  absolutely  the  voice  of  reason. 

"  I  shall  not  treat  Enrica  cruelly,"  was  her  reply,  "  nor 
will  I  cause  a  scandal,  but  I  can  never  forgive  her.  By 
this  act  of  loving  Nobili  she  has  separated  herself  from  me 
irrevocably.  Let  her  renounce  him  ;  she  has  her  choice — 
mine  is  already  made." 

The  cavaliere  listened  in  silence.  Much  had  been 
gained,  in  his  opinion,  by  this  partial  concession.  The 
subject  had  been  broached,  the  hated  name  mentioned, 
the  possibility  of  the  marriage  mooted.  He  rose  with  a 
cheerful  smile  to  take  his  leave. 

"  Marchesa,  it  is  late — permit  me  to  salute  you ;  you 
must  require  repose." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  sighing  deeply.     "  It  seems  to 


WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  201 

me  a  year  since  I  entered  this  room.  I  must  leave  Lucca. 
Enrica  cannot,  after  what  has  passed,  remain  here.  Thanks 
to  her,  I,  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  palace,  am  become  the 
common  town-talk.  Cesare,  I  shall  leave  Lucca  to-morrow 
for  my  villa  of  Corellia.  Good-night." 

The  cavaliere  again  kissed  her  hand  and  departed. 

"  If  that  weathercock  of  a  thousand  colors,  that  idiot, 
Marescotti,"  muttered  the  cavaliere,  as  he  descended  the 
stairs,  "  could  only  be  got  to  give  up  his  impious  mission, 
and  marry  the  dear  child,  all  might  yet  be  right.  He  has 
an  eye  and  a  tongue  that  would  charm  a  woman  into  any 
thing.  Alas !  alas  !  what  a  pasticcio ! — made  by  herself — 
made  by  herself  and  her  lawsuits  about  the  defunct  Guinigi 
— damn  them  !  " 

It  was  seldom  that  the  cavaliere  used  bad  words — ex 
cuse  him. 


PAET    III. 

CHAPTER  I. 

A  LONELY  TOWN. 

THE  road  from  Lucca  to  Corellia  lies  at  the  foot  of 
lofty  mountains,  over-mantled  by  chestnut-forests,  and  cleft 
asunder  by  the  river  Serchio — the  broad,  willful  Serchio, 
sprung  from  the  flanks  of  virgin  fastnesses.  In  its  course 
a  thousand  valleys  open  up,  scoring  the  banks.  Each  val 
ley  has  its  tributary  stream,  down  which,  even  in  the  dog- 
days,  cool  breezes  rustle.  The  lower  hills  lying  warm 
toward  the  south,  and  the  broad  glassy  lands  by  the  river, 
are  trellised  with  vines.  Some  fling  their  branches  in  wild 
festoons  on  mulberry  or  aspen  trees.  Some  trained  in  long 
arbors  are  held  up  by  pillars  of  unbarked  wood ;  others 
trail  upon  the  earth  in  delicious  luxuriance.  The  white 
and  purple  grapes  peep  from  the  already  shriveled  leaves, 
or  hang  in  rich  masses  on  the  brown  earth. 

It  is  the  vintage.  The  peasants,  busy  as  bees,  swarm 
on  the  hill-sides ;  the  women  pluck  the  fruit ;  the  men  bear 
it  away  in  wooden  measures.  While  they  work,  they  sing 
those  wild  Tuscan  melodies  that  linger  in  the  air  like  long- 
drawn  sighs.  The  donkeys,  too,  climb  up  and  down,  sad 
dled  with  wooden  panniers,  crammed  with  grapes.  These 
grapes  are  shot  into  large  tubs,  and  placed  in  a  shady  out- 


A  LONELY   TOWX  203 

house.  Some  black-eyed  boy  will  dance  merrily  on  these 
tubs,  by-and-by,  with  his  naked  feet,  and  squeeze  out  the 
juice.  This  juice  is  then  covered  and  left  to  ferment,  then 
bottled  into  flasks,  covered  with  wicker-work,  corked  with 
tow,  and  finally  stowed  away  in  caves  among  the  rocks. 

The  marchesa's  lumbering  coach,  drawn  by  three  horses 
harnessed  abreast  (another  horse,  smaller  than  the  rest,  put 
in  tandem  in  front),  creaks  along  the  road  by  the  river-side, 
on  its  high  wheels.  She  sits  within,  a  stony  look  upon  her 
hard  white  face.  Enrica,  pale  and  silent,  is  beside  her. 
No  word  has  passed  between  them  since  they  left  Lucca 
two  hours  ago.  They  pass  groups  of  peasants,  their  la 
bors  over  for  the  day— turning  out  of  the  vineyards  upon 
the  high-road.  The  donkeys  are  driven  on  in  front.  They 
are  braying  .for  joy ;  their  faces  are  turned  homeward. 
Boys  run  at  their  heels,  and  spur  them  on  with  sticks  and 
stones.  The  women  Jag  behind  talking — their  white  head 
gear  and  gold  ear-rings  catching  the  low  sunshine  that 
strikes  through  rents  of  parting  mountains.  Every  man 
takes  off  his  hat  to  the  marchesa ;  every  woman  wishes  her 
good-day. 

It  is  only  the  boys  who  do  not  fear  her.  They  have  no 
caps  to  raise ;  when  the  carriage  has  passed,  they  leave  the 
donkeys  and  hang  on  behind  like  a  swarm  of  bees.  The 
driver  is  quite  aware  of  this,  and  his  long  whip,  which  he 
has  cracked  at  intervals  all  the  way  from  Lucca — would 
reach  the  grinning,  white-toothed  little  vagabonds  well; 
but  he — the  driver — grins  too,  and  spares  them. 

Together  they  all  mount  the  zigzag  mountain-pass,  that 
turns  short  off  from  the  right  bank  of  the  valley  of  the 
Serchio,  toward  Corellia.  The  peasants  sing  choruses  as 
they  trudge  upward,  taking  short  cuts  among  the  trees  at 
the  angles  of  the  zigzag.  The  evening  lights  come  and 
go  among  the  chestnut-trees  and  on  the  soft,  short  grass. 
Here  a  fierce  flick  of  sunshine  shoots  across  the  road ;  there 


204  THE  ITALIANS. 

deep  gloom  darkens  an  angle  into  which  the  coach  plunges, 
the  peasants,  grouped  on  the  top  of  a  bank  overhead, 
standing  out  darkly  in  the  yellow  glow. 

It  is  a  lonely  pass  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  Apennines, 
midway  between  Lucca  and  Modena.  In  winter  the  road 
is  clogged  with  snow ;  nothing  can  pass.  Now,  there  is 
no  sound  but  the  singing  of  water-falls,  and  the  trickle  of 
water-courses,  the  chirrup  of  the  cicala,  not  yet  gone  to  its 
rest — and  the  murmur  of  the  hot  breezes  rustling  in  the 
distant  forest. 

No  sound — save  when  sudden  thunder-pelts  wake  awful 
echoes  among  the  great  brotherhood  of  mountain-tops — 
when  torrents  burst  forth,  pouring  downward,  flooding  the 
narrow  garden  ledges,  and  tearing  away  the  patches  of 
corn  and  vineyard,  the  people's  food.  Before — behind — 
around — arise  peaks  of  purple  Apennines,  cresting  up 
ward  into  the  blue  sky — an  earthen  sea  dashed  into  sudden 
breakers,  then  struck  motionless.  In  front,  in  solitary 
state,  rises  the  lofty  summit  of  La  Pagna,  casting  off  its 
giant  mountain-fellows  right  and  left,  which  fade  away  into 
a  golden  haze  toward  Modena. 

High  up  overhead,  crowning  a  precipitous  rock,  .stands 
Corellia,  a  knot  of  browned,  sun-baked  houses,  flat-roofed, 
open-galleried,  many-storied,  nestling  round  a  ruined  cas 
tle,  athwart  whose  rents  the  ardent  sunshine  darts.  This 
ruined  castle  and  the  tower  of  an  ancient  Lombard  church, 
heavily  arched  and  galleried  with  stone,  gleaming  out  upon 
a  surface  of  faded  brickwork,  form  the  outline  of  the  lit 
tle  town.  It  is  inclosed  by  solid  walls,  and  entered  by  an 
archway  so  low  that  the  marchesa's  driver  has  to  dismount 
as  he  passes  through.  The  heavy  old  carriage  rumbles  in 
with  a  hollow  noise ;  the  horses'  hoofs  strike  upon  the 
rough  stones  with  a  harsh,  loud  sound. 

Tke  whole  town  of  Corellia  belongs  to  the  marchesa. 
It  is  an  ancient  fief  of  the  Guinigi.  Legend  says  that 


A  LONELY  TOWN.  205 

Castruccio  Castracani  was  born  here.  This  is  enough  for 
the  marchesa.  As  in  the  palace  of  Lucca,  she  still — even 
at  lonely  Corellia — lives  as  it  were  under  the  shadow  of 
that  great  ancestral  name. 

Lonely  Corellia !  Yes,  it  is  lonely  !  The  church  bells, 
high  up  in  the  Lombard  tower  sound  loudly  the  matins 
and  the  eventide.  They  sound  louder  still  on  the  saints' 
days  and  festivals.  With  the  festivals  pass  summer  and 
winter,  both  dreary  to  the  poor.  Children  are  born,  and 
marriage-flutes  wake  the  echoes  of  the  mountain  solitudes 
— and  mothers  weep,  hearing  them,  remembering  their 
young  days  and  present  pinching  want.  The  aged  groan, 
for  joy  to  them  comes  like  a  fresh  pang  ! 

The  marchesa's  carriage  passes  through  Corellia  at  a 
foot's  pace.  The  driver  has  no  choice.  It  is  most  difficult 
to  drive  at  all — the  street  is  so  narrow,  and  the  door-steps 
of  the  houses  jut  out  so  into  the  narrow  space.  The 
horses,  too,  hired  at  Lucca,  twenty  miles  away,  are  tired, 
poor  beasts,  and  reeking  with  the  heat.  They  can  hardly 
keep  their  feet  upon  the  rugged,  slippery  stones  that  pave 
the  dirty  alley.  As  the  marchesa  passes  slowly  by,  wan- 
facednvomen — colored  handkerchiefs  gathered  in  folds  upon 
their  heads,  knitting  or  spinning  flax  cut  from  the  little 
field  without  upon  the  mountain-side — put  down  the  black, 
curly-headed  urchins  that  cling  to  their  laps — rise  from 
where  they  are  resting  on  the  door-step,  and  salute  the 
marchesa  with  an  awe-struck  stare.  She,  in  no  mood  for 
condescension,  answers  them  with  a  frown.  Why  have 
these  wan-faced  mothers,  with  scarcely  bread  to  eat,  children 
between  their  knees?  Why  has  God  given  her  none? 
Again  the  impious  thought  rises  within  her  which  tempted 
her  when  standing  before  the  marriage-bed  in  1he  nuptial 
chamber.  "God  is  my  enemy."  "He  has  smitten  me 
with  a  curse."  "Why  have  I  no  child?"  "No  child, 
nothing  but  her  " — and  she  flashes  a  savage  glance  at  En- 


206  THE  ITALIANS. 

rica,  who  has  sunk  backward,  covering  her  tear-stained 
face  with  a  black  veil,  to  avoid  the  peering  eyes  of  the 
Corellia  townsfolk — "  nothing  but  her.  Born  to  disgrace 
me.  Would  she  were  dead !  Then  all  would  end,  and  I 
should  go  down — the  last  Guinigi — to  an  honored  grave." 

The  sick,  too,  are  sitting  at  the  doorways  as  the  mar- 
chesa  passes  by.  The  mark  of  fever  is  on  many  an  ashy 
cheek.  These  sick  have  been  carried  from  their  beds  to 
breathe  such  air  as  evening  brings.  Air !  There  is  no  air 
from  heaven  in  these  foul  streets.  No  sweet  breath  circu 
lates  ;  no  summer  scents  of  grasses  and  flowers  reach  the 
lonely  town  hung  up  so  high.  The  summer  sun  scorches. 
The  icy  winds  of  winter,  sweeping  down  from  Alpine  ridges, 
whistle  round  the  walls.  Within  are  chilly,  desolate 
hearths,  on  which  np  fire  is  kindled.  These  sick,  as  the 
carriage  passes,  turn  their  weary  eyes,  and  lift  up  their 
wasted  hands  in  mute  salutations  to  that  dreaded  mistress 
who  is  lord  of  all — the  great  marchesa.  Will  they  not  lie 
in  the  marchesa's  ground  when  their  hour  comes  ?  Alas  1 
how  soon — their  weakness  tells  them  very  soon  !  Will 
they  not  be  carried  in  an  open  bier  up  those  long  flights  of 
steps — all  hers — cut  in  the  rocky  sides  of  overlappingj-ocks, 
to  the  cemetery,  darkly  shaded  by  waving  cypresses  ?  The 
ground  is  hers,  the  rocks,  the  steps,  the  stones,  the  very 
flowers  that  brown,  skinny  hands  will  sprinkle  on  their  bier 
— all  hers.  From  birth  to  bridal,  and  the  marriage-bed  (so 
fruitful  to  the  poor),  from  bridal  to  death,  all  hers.  The 
land  they  live  on,  and  the  graves  they  fill,  all — but  a 
shadow  of  her  greatness  ! 

At  the  corner  of  the  squalid,  ill-smelling  street  through 
which  she  is  now  passing,  is  the  town  fountain.  This  foun 
tain,  once  a  willful  mountain-torrent,  now  cruelly  captured 
and  borne  hither  by  municipal  force,  splashes  downward 
through  a  sculptured  circle  cut  in  a  marble  slab,  into  a  cov 
ered  trough  below.  Here  bold-eyed  maidens  are  gathered, 


A   LONELY   TOWN.  207 

who  poise  copper  vessels  on  their  dark  heads — maidens  who 
can  chat,  and  laugh,  and  romp,  on  holidays,  and  with  flushed 
faces  dance  wild  tarantellas  (fingers  for  castanets),  where 
the  old  tale  of  love  is  told  in  many  a  subtile  step,  and  shuf 
fle,  rush,  escape,  and  feint,  ending  in  certain  capture  !  Be 
side  the  maidens  linger  some  mountain  lads.  Now  their 
work  is  over,  they  loll  against  the  wall,  pipe  in  mouth,  or 
lie  stretched  on  a  plot  of  grass  that  grows  green  under  the 
spray  of  the  fountain.  In  a  dark  angle,  a  little  behind  from 
these,  there  is  a  shrine  hollowed  out  of  the  city  wall. 
Within  the  shrine  an  image  of  the  Holy  Mother  of  the 
Seven  Sorrows  stands,  her  arms  outstretched,  her  bosom 
pierced  by  seven  gilded  arrows.  The  shrine  is  protected 
by  an  iron  grating.  Bunches  of  pale  hill-side  blossoms, 
ferns,  and  a  few  blades  of  corn,  are  thrust  in  between  the 
bars.  Some  lie  at  the  Virgin's  feet — offerings  from  those 
who  have  nothing  'else  to  give.  A  little  group  (but  these 
are  old,  and  bowed  by  grief  and  want)  kneel  beside  the 
shrine  in  the  quiet  evening-tide. 

The  rumble  of  a  carriage,  so  strange  a  sound  in  lonely 
Corellia,  rouses  all.  From  year  to  year,  no  wheels  pass 
through  the  town  save  the  marchesa's.  Ere  she  appears, 
all  know  who  it  must  be.  The  kneelers  at  the  shrine  start 
up  and  hobble  forward  to  stare  and  wonder  at  that  strange 
world  whence  she  comes,  so  far  away  at  Lucca.  The 
maidens  courtesy  and  smile ;  the  lads  jump  up,  and  range 
themselves  respectfully  against  the  wall ;  yet  in  their  hearts 
neither  care  for  her — neither  the  maidens  nor  the  lads — no 
one  cares  for  the  marchesa.  They  are  all  looking  out  for 
Enrica.  Why  does  the  signorina  lie  back  in  the  carriage  a 
mass  of  clothes  ?  The  maidens  would  like  to  see  how  those 
clothes  are  made,  to  cut  their  poor  garments  something  like 
them.  The  lads  would  like  to  let  their  eyes  rest  on  her 
golden  hair.  Why  does  the  Signorina  Enrica  not  nod  and 
smile  to  those  she  knows,  as  is  her  wont  ?  Has  that  old 


208  THE  ITALIANS. 

tyrant,  her  aunt — these  young  ones  are  bold,  and  dare  to 
whisper  what  others  think;  they  have  no  care,  and,  like  the 
lilies  of  the  field,  live  in  the  wild,  free  air — has  that  old  ty 
rant,  her  aunt,  bewitched  her  ? 

Now  the  carriage  has  emerged  from  the  dark  alley,  and 
entered  the  dirty  but  somewhat  less  dark  piazza — the  mar 
ket-place  of  Corellia.  The  old .  Lombard  church  of  Santa 
Barbara,  with  its  big  bells  in  the  arched  tower,  hanging 
plainly  to  be  seen,  opens  into  the  piazza  by  a  flight  of  steps 
and  a  sculptured  doorway.  The  Municipio,  too,  calling  it 
self  a,  palace  (heaven  save  the  mark !),  with  its  list  of  births, 
deaths,  and  marriages,  posted  on  a  black-board  outside  the 
door,  to  be  seen  of  all,  adorns  it.  The  Cafe  of  the  Tricolor, 
and  such  shops  as  Corellia  boasts  of,  are  there  opposite. 
Men,  smoking,  and  drinking  native  wine,  are  lounging 
about.  Ser  Giacomo,  the  notary,  spectacles  on  nose,  sits 
at  a  table  in  a  corner,  reading  aloud  to  a  select  audience  a 
weekly  broad-sheet  published  at  Lucca,  news  of  men  and 
things  not  of  the  mountain-tops.  Every  soul  starts  up  as 
they  hear  wheels  approaching.  If  a  bomb  had  burst  in  the 
piazza  the  panic  could  not  be  greater.  They  know  it  is  the 
marchesa.  They  know  that  now  the  marchesa  is  come  she 
will  grind  and  harry  them,  and  seize  her  share  of  grapes, 
and  corn,  and  olives,  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  Silvestro, 
her  steward,  a  timid,  pitiful  man,  can  be  got  over  by  soft 
words,  and  the  sight  of  want  and  misery.  Not  so  the  mar 
chesa.  They  know  that  now  she  is  come  she  will  call  the 
Town  Council,  fine  them,  pursue  them  for  rent,  cite  them  to 
the  High  Court  of  Barga,  imprison  them  if  they  cannot  pay. 
They  know  her,  and  they  curse  her.  The  ill-news  of  her 
arrival  runs  from  lip  to  lip.  Checco,  the  butcher,  who  sells 
his  meat  cut  into  dark,  indescribably-shaped  scraps,  more 
fit  for  dogs  than  men,  first  sees  the  carriage  turn  into  the 
piazza.  He  passes  the  word  on  to  Oreste,  the  barber  round 
the  corner.  Oreste,  who,  with  his  brother  Pilade,  both 


A  LONELY  TOWN.  209 

wearing  snow-white  aprons,  are  squaring  themselves  at 
their  open  doorway,  over  which  hangs  a  copper  basin, 
shaped  like  Manbrino's  helmet,  looking  for  customers — 
Oreste  and  Pilade  turn  pale.  Then  Oreste  tells  the  baker, 
Pietro,  who,  naked  as  Nature  made  him,  has  run  out  from 
his  oven  to  the  open  door,  for  a  breath  of  air.  The  bewil 
dered  clerk  at  the  Municipio,  who  sits  and  writes,  and 
sleeps  by  turns,  all  day,  in  a  low  room  beside  a  desk,  taking 
notes  for  the  sindaco  (mayor)  from  all  who  come  (he  is  so 
tired,  that  clerk,  he  would  hear  the  last  trumpet  sound  un 
moved),  even  he  hears  the  news,  and  starts  up. 

Now  the  carriage  stops.  It  has  drawn  up  in  the  cen 
tre  of  the  piazza.  It  is  the  marchesa's  custom.  She  puts 
her  head  out  of  the  window,  and  takes  a  long,  grave  look 
all  round.  These  are  her  vassals.  They  fear  her.  She 
knows  it,  and  she  glories  in  it.  Every  head  is  uncovered, 
every  eye  turned  upon  her.  It  is  obviously  some  one's 
duty  to  salute  her  and  to  welcome  her  to  her  domain.  She 
has  stopped  for  this  purpose.  It  is  always  done.  No  one, 
however,  stirs.  Ser  Giacomo,  the  notary,  bows  low  beside 
the  table  where  he  has  been  caught  reading  the  Lucca 
broad-sheet ;  but  Ser  Giacomo  does  not  stir.  How  he  wishes 
he  had  staid  at  home  ! 

He  has  not  the  courage  to  move  one  step  toward  her. 
Something  must  be  done,  so  Ser  Giacomo  he  runs  and 
fetches  the  sindaco  from  inside  the  recesses  of  the  cafe, 
where  he  is  playing  dominoes  under  a  lighted  lamp.  The 
sindaco  must  give  the  marchesa  a  formal  welcome.  The  sin 
daco,  a  saddler  by  trade — a  snuffy  little  man,  with  a  face 
drawn  and  yellow  as  parchment,  wearing  his  working-clothes 
— advances  to  the  carriage  with  a  step  as  cautious  as  a 
cat. 

"  I  trust  the  illustrious  lady  is  well,"  he  says  timidly, 
bowing  low  and  trying  to  smile.  Mr.  Sindaco  is  frightened^ 
but  he  can  be  proud  enough  to  his  fellow-townsfolk,  and 


210  THE  ITALIANS. 

he  is  downright  cruel  to  that  poor  lad  his  clerk,  at  the 
Municipal  Palace. 

The  marchesa,  with  a  cold,  distant  air,  that  would  in 
stantly  check  any  approach  to  familiarity — if  anyone  were 
bold  enough  to  be  familiar — answers  gravely,  "  That  she  is 
thankful  to  say  she  is  in  her  usual  health." 

The  sindaco — although  better  off  than  many,  painfully 
conscious  of  long  arrears  of  unpaid  rent — waxing  a  little 
bolder  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  and  his  well-chosen 
phrases,  continues : 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Signora  Marchesa."  The  sindaco 
further  observes,  "  That  he  hopes  for  the  illustrious  lady's 
indulgence  and  good-will." 

His  smile  has  faded  now  ;  his  voice  trembles.  If  his 
skin  were  not  so  yellow,  he  would  be  white  all  over,  for  the 
marchesa's  looks  are  not  encouraging.  The  sindaco  dreads 
a  summons  to  the  High  Court  of  Barga,  where  the  pro 
vincial  prisons  are — with  which  he  may  be  soon  better  ac 
quainted,  he  fears. 

In  reply,  the  marchesa — who  perfectly  understands  all 
this  in  a  general  way — scowls,  and  fixes  her  rigid  eyes  upon 
him. 

"  Signore  Sindaco,  I  cannot  stop  to  listen  to  any  griev 
ance  now ;  I  will  promise  no  indulgence.  I  must  pay  my 
bills.  You  must  pay  me,  Signore  Sindaco ;  that  is  but  fair." 

The  poor  little  snuffy  mayor  bows  a  dolorous  acquies 
cence.  He  is  hopeless,  but  polite — like  a  true  Italian,  who 
would  thank  the  hangman  as  he  fastens  the  rope  round  his 
neck.  But  the  marchesa's  words  strike /terror  into  all  who 
hear  them.  All  owe  her  long  arrears  of  rent,  and  much  be 
sides.  Why — oh  !  why — did  the  cruel  lady  come  to  Co- 
rellia  ? 

Having  announced  her  intentions  in  a  clear,  metallic 
voice,  the  marchesa  draws  her  head  back  into  the  coach. 

"  Send  Silvestro  to  me,"  she  adds,  addressing  the  sin- 


A  LONELY  TOWN.  211 

daco.  "  Silvestro  will  inform  me  of  all  I  want  to  know." 
(Silvestro  is  her  steward.) 

"  Is  the  noble  young  Lady  Enrica  unwell  ?  "  asks  the 
perservering  sindaco,  gazing  earnestly  through  the  window. 

He  knows  his  doom.  He  has  nothing  to  hope  from  the 
marchesa's  clemency,  so  he  may  as  well  gratify  his  burning 
curiosity  by  a  question  about  the  much-beloved  Enrica, 
who  must  certainly  have  been  ill-used  by  her  aunt  to  keep 
so  much  out  of  sight. 

"  The  people  of  Corcllia  would  also  offer  their  respect 
ful  homage  to  her,"  bravely  adds  Mr.  Sindaco,  tempting 
his  fate.  "  The  Lady  Enrica  is  much  esteemed  here  in  the 
town." 

As  he  speaks  the  sindaco  gazes  in  wrouder  at  the  muffled 
figure  in  the  corner.  Can  this  be-  she  ?  Why  does  she  not 
move  forward  and  answer? — and  show  her  pretty  face, 
and  approve  the  people's  greeting  ? 

"  My  niece  has  a  headache ;  leave  her  alone,"  answers 
the  marchesa,  curtly.  "  Do  not  speak  to  her,  Mr.  Sindaco. 
She  will  visit  Corellia  another  day ;  meanwhile,  adieu." 

The  marchesa  waves  her  hand  majestically,  and  signs 
for  him  to  retire.  This  the  sindaco  does  with  an  inward 
groan  at  the  thought  of  what  is  coming  on  him. 

Poor  Enrica,  feeling  as  if  a  curse  were  on  her,  cutting 
her  off  from  all  her  former  life,  shrinks  back  deeper  into  the 
corner  of  the  carriage,  draws  the  black  veil  closer  about  her 
face,  and  sobs  aloud.  The  marchesa  turns  her  head  away. 
The  driver  cracks  his  long  whip  over  the  steaming  horses, 
which  move  feebly  forward  with  a  jerk.  Thus  the  coach 
slowly  traverses  the  whole  length  of  the  piazza,  the  wheels 
rumbling  themselves  into  silence  out  in  a  long  street  lead 
ing  to  another  gate  on  the  farther  side  of  the  town. 

Not  another  word  more  is  said  that  night  among  the 
townsfolk ;  but  there  is  not  a  man  at  Corellia  who  does 
not  curse  the  marchesa  in  his  heart.  Ser  Giacomo,  the 


THE   ITALIANS. 

notary,  folds  up  his  newspaper  in  dead  silence,  puts  it  into 
his  pocket,  and  departs.  The  lights  in  the  dark  cqf&,  which 
burn  sometimes  all  day  when  it  is  cloudy,  are  extinguished. 
The  domino-players  disappear.  Oreste  and  Pilade  shut  up 
their  shop  despondingly.  The  baker  Pietro  comes  out  no 
more  to  cool  at  the  door.  Anyway,  there  must  be  bakers, 
he  reflects,  to  bake  the  bread ;  so  Pietro  retreats,  comforted, 
to  his  oven,  and  works  frantically  all  night.  He  is  safe, 
Pietro  hopes,  though  he  has  paid  no  rent  for  two  whole 
years,  and  has  sold  some  of  the  corn  which  ought  to  have 
gone  to  the  marchesa. 

Meanwhile  the  heavy  carriage,  with  its  huge  leather 
hood  and  double  rumble,  swaying  dangerously  to  and  fro, 
descends  a  steep  and  rugged  road  embowered  in  forest, 
leading  to  a  narrow  ledge  upon  the  summit  of  a  line  of 
cliffs.  On  the  very  edge  of  these  cliffs,  formed  of  a  dark- 
red  basaltic  stone,  the  marchesa's  villa  stands.  A  deep, 
dark  precipice  drops  down  beneath.  Opposite  is  a  range 
of  mountains,  fair  and  forest-spread  on  the  lower  flanks, 
rising  above  into  wild  crags,  and  broken,  blackened  peaks, 
that  mock  the  soft  blue  radiance  of  the  evening  sky. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHAT   SILVESTRO   SAYS. 

» 

SILVESTBO,  the  steward,  is  a  man  "  full  of  conscience," 
as  people  say,  deeply  sensible  of  his  responsibilities,  and 
more  in  dread  of  the  marchesa  than  of  the  Church.  It  is 
this  dread  that  makes  him  so  emaciated — hesitate  when  he 
speaks,  and  bend  his  back  and  shoulders  into  a  constant 
cringe.  But  for  this  dread,  Silvestro  would  forgive  the 
poor  people  more.  He  sees  such  pinching  misery  every 
day — lives  in  it — suffers  from  it;  how  can  he  ask  those  for 
jnoney  who  have  none  ?  It  is  like  forcing  blood  out  of  a 
stone.  He  is  not  the  man  to  do  it.  Silvestro  lives  at 
hand  ;  he  hears  the  rattle  of  the  hail  that  burns  the  grapes 
up  to  a  cinder — the  terrible  din  of  the  thunder  before  the 
forked  lightning  strikes  the  cattle  ;  he  sees  with  his  own 
eyes  the  griping  want  of  bread  in  the  savage  winter-time  ; 
his  own  eyes  behold  the  little  lambs,  dead  of  hunger,  lying 
by  the  road-side.  "Worse  still,  he  sees  other  lambs — human 
lambs  with  Christian  souls — fade  and  pine  and  shrink  into 
a  little  grave,  from  failing  of  mother's  milk,  dried  up  for 
want  of  proper  food.  He  sees,  too,  the  aged  die  before  God 
calls  them,  failing  through*  lack  of  nourishment — a  little 
wine,  perhaps,  or  a  mouthful  of  soup ;  the  young  and 
strong  grow  old  with  ceaseless  striving.  Poor  Silvestro ! 
he  sees  too  much.  He  cannot  be  severe.  He  is  born 


214  THE  ITALIANS. 

merciful.  Silvestro  is  honest  as  the  day,  but  he  hides 
things  from  the  marchesa ;  he  is  honest,  but  he  cannot — 
no,  he  cannot — grind  and  vex  the  poor,  as  she  would  have 
him  do.  Yet  she  has  no  one  to  take  his  place  in  that  God- 
forgotten  town — so  they  pull  on,  man  and  mistress — a 
truly  ill-matched  pair — pull  on,  year  after  year.  It  is  a 
weary  life  for  him  when  the  great  lady  comes  up  for  her 
villeggiatura — Silvestro,  divided,  cleft  in  twain,  so  to  say, 
as  he  is,  between  his  awe  and  respect  for  the  marchesa  and 
her  will,  and  his  terrible  sympathy  for  all  suffering  creat 
ures,  man  or  beast. 

As  to  the  marchesa,  she  despises  Silvestro  too  pro 
foundly  to  notice  his  changing  moods.  It  is  not  her  habit 
to  look  for  any  thing  but  obedience — absolute  obedience 
— from  those  beneath  her.  A  thousand  times  she  has  told 
herself  such  a  fool  would  ruin  her;  but,  up  to  this  pres 
ent  time,  she  has  borne  with  him,  partly  from  .convenience, 
and  partly  because  she  fears  to  get  a  rogue  in  his  place. 
She  does  not  guess  how  carefully  Silvestro  has  hid  the 
truth  from  her;  she  would  not  give  him  credit  for  the 
power  of  concealing  any  thing. 

The  sindaco  having  sent  a  boy  up  to  Silvestro's  house 
with  the  marchesa's  message,  "  that  he  is  to  attend  her," 
the  steward  comes  hurrying  down  through  the  terraces 
cut  in  the  steep  ground  behind  the  villa — broad,  stately 
terraces,  with  balustrades,  and  big  empty  vases,  and  statues, 
and  grand  old  lemon-trees  set  about.  Great  flights  of 
marble  steps  cross  and  recross,  rest  on  a  marble  stage, 
and  then  recross  again.  Here  and  there  a  pointed  cypress- 
tree  towers  upward  like  a  green  pyramid  in  a  desert  of 
azure  sky.  Bright-leaved  autumn  flowers  lie  in  masses  on 
the  rich  brown  earth,  and  dainty  streamlets  come  rushing 
downward  in  little  sculptured  troughs. 

What  a  dismal  sigh  Silvestro  gave  when  he  got  the 
marchesa's  message,  and  knew  that  she  had  arrived !  How 


WHAT  SILVESTRO  SAYS.  215 

he  wrung  his  hands  and  looked  hopelessly  upward  to  heav 
en  with  vacant,  colorless  eyes,  the  big  heat-drops  gather 
ing  on  his  bald,  wrinkled  forehead  !  He  has  so  much  to 
tell  her  ! — It  must  be  told  too ;  he  can  hide  the  truth  no 
longer.  She  will  be  sure  to  ask  to  see  the  accounts. 
Alas !  alas  !  what  will  his  mistress  say  ?  For  a  moment 
Silvestro  gazes  wistfully  at  the  mountains  all  around  with 
a  vacant  stare.  Oh,  that  the  mountains  would  cover  him  ! 
Anyway,  there  are  caves  and  holes,  he  thinks,  where  the 
marchesa's  wrath  would  never  reach  him  ;  caves  and  holes 
where  he  might  live  hidden  for  years,  cared  for  by  those 
who  love  him.  Shall  he  flee,  and  never  see  his  mistress's 
dark,  dreadful  eyes  again  ?  Folly  ! 

Silvestro  rouses  himself.  He  resolves  to  meet  his  fate 
like  a  man,  whatever  that  may  be.  He  will  not  forsake 
his  duty. — So  Silvestro  comes  hurrying  down  by  the  ter 
races,  upon  which  the  shadows  fall,  to  the  house — a  gray 
mediaeval  tower,  machicolated  and  turreted — the  only  re 
mains  of  a  strong  fortress  that  in  feudal  times  guarded 
these  passes  from  Modena  into  Tuscany.  To  this  gray 
tower  is  attached  a  large  modern  dwelling — a  villa — painted 
of  a  dull-yellow  color,  with  an  overlapping  roof,  the  walls 
pierced  full  of  windows.  The  tower,  villa,  and  the  line  of 
cliffs  on  which  they  stand,  face  east  and  west ;  on  one  side 
the  forest  and  Corellia  crowning  a  rocky  height,  on  the 
other  side  mountains,  with  a  deep  abyss  at  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs,  yawning  between.  It  is  the  marchesa's  pleasure  to 
inhabit  the  old  tower  rather  than  the  pleasant  villa,  with 
its  big  windows  and  large,  cheerful  rooms.  , 

Being  tall  and  spare,  Silvestro  stoops  under  the  low, 
arched  doorway,  heavily  clamped  with  iron  and  nails,  lead 
ing  into  the  tower ;  then  he  mounts  very  slowly  a  winding 
stair  of  stone  to  the  second  story.  The  sound  of  his  foot 
steps  brings  a  whole  pack  of  dogs  rushing  out  upon  the 
gravel. 


216  THE   ITALIANS. 

(On  the  gravel  before  the  house  there  is  a  fountain 
springing  up  out  of  a  marble  basin  full  of  gold-fish.  Pots 
are  set  round  the  edge  with  the  sweetest-smelling  flowers 
— tuberoses,  heliotropes,  and  gardenias.)  The  dogs,  bark 
ing  loudly,  run  round  the  basin  and  upset  some  of  the 
pots.  One  noble  mastiff,  with  long  white  hair  and  strong 
straight  limbs — -the  leader  of  the  pack — pursues  Silvestro 
up  the  dark,  tiring  stairs.  When  the  mastiff  has  reached 
him  and  smelt  at  him  he  stands  still,  wags  his  tail,  and 
thrusts  his  nose  into  Silvestro's  hand. 

"  Poor  Argo  !  "  says  the  steward,  meekly.  "  Don't  bark 
at  me ;  I  cannot  bear  it  now." 

Argo  gives  a  friendly  sniff,  and  leaves  him. 

At  a  door  on  the  right,  Silvestro  stops  short,  to  collect 
his  thoughts  and  his  breath.  He  has  not  seen  his  mistress 
for  a  year.  His  soul  sinks  at  the  thought  of  what  he  must 
tell  her  now.  "  Can  she  punish  me  ? "  he  asks  himself, 
vaguely.  Perhaps.  He  must  bear  it  if  she  does.  He  has 
done  all  he  can.  Consoled  by  this  reflection,  he  knocks. 
A  well-known  voice  answers,  "  Come  in."  Silvestro's  clam 
my  hand  is  on  the  lock — a  worm-eaten  door  creaks  on  its 
hinges — he  enters. 

The  marchesa  nods  to  Silvestro  Avithout  specking.  She 
is  seated  before  a  high  desk  of  carved  walnut-wood,  facing 
the  door.  The  desk  is  covered  with  papers.  A  file  of  pa 
pers  is  in  her  hand ;  others  lie  upon  her  lap.  All  round 
there  are  cupboards,  shelves,  and  drawers,  piled  with  papers 
and  documents,  most  of  them  yellow  with  age.  These  con 
sist  of  old  leases,  contracts,  copies  of  various  lawsuits  with 
her  tenants,  appeals  to  Barga,  mortgages,  accounts.  The 
room  is  low,  and  rounded  to  the  shape  of  the  tower.  Na 
ked  joists  and  rafters  of  black  wood  support  the  ceiling. 
The  light  comes  in  through  some  loop-holes,  high  up,  cut  in 
the  thickness  of  the  wall.  Some  tall,  high-backed  chairs, 
covered  with  strips  of  faded  satin,  stand  near  the  chimney. 


WHAT   SILVESTRO   SAYS.  217 

A  wooden  bedstead,  without  curtains,  is  partly  concealed 
behind  a  painted  screen,  covered  with  gods  and  goddesses, 
much  consumed  and  discolored  from  the  damp.  As  the 
room  had  felt  a  little  chilly  from  want  of  use,  a  large  fire  of 
unbarked  wood  had  been  kindled.  The  fire  blazes  fiercely 
on  the  flat  stones  within  an  open  hearth,  unguarded  by  a 
grate. 

Having  nodded  to  Silvestro,  the  marchesa  takes  no  fur 
ther  notice  of  him.  From  time  to  time  she  flings  a  loose 
paper  from  those  lying  before  her — over  her  shoulder  tow 
ard  the  fire,  which  is  at  her  back.  Of  these  papers  some 
reach  the  fire ;'  others,  but  half  consumed,  fall  back  upon 
the  floor.  The  flames  of  the  wood-fire  leap  out  and  seize 
the  papers — now  one  by  one — now  as  they  lie  in  little 
heaps.  The  flames  leap  up ;  the  burning  papers  crumple 
along  the  floor,  in  little  streaks  of  fire,  catching  others  that 
lie,  still  farther  on  in  the  room,  still  unconsumed.  Ere 
these  papers  have  sunk  into  ashes,  a  fresh  supply,  thrown 
over  her  shoulder  by  the  marchesa,  have  caught  the  flames. 
All  the  space  behind  her  chair  is  covered  with  smouldering 
papers.  A  stack  of  wood,  placed  near  to  replenish  the  fire, 
has  caught,  and  is  smouldering  also.  The  fire,  too,  on  the 
hearth  is  burning  fiercely;  it  crackles  up  the  wide  open 
chimney  in  a  mass  of  smoke  and  sparks. 

The  marchesa  is  far  too  much  absorbed  to  notice  this. 
Silvestro,  standing  near  the  door — the  high  desk  and  the 
marchcsa's  tall  figure  between  him  and  the  hearth — does  not 
perceive  it  either.  Still  the  marchesa  bends  over  her  pa 
pers,  reading  some  and  throwing  others  over  her  shoulders 
into  the  flames  behind. 

Silvestro,  who  had  grown  hot  and  cold  twenty  times  in 
a  minute,  standing  before  her,  his  book  under  his  arm — 
thinking  she  had  forgotten  him — addresses  her  at  last. 

"  How  does  madama  feel  ?  "  Silvestro  asks  most  hum 
bly,  turning  his  lack-lustre  eyes  upon  her. 
10 


THE  ITALIANS. 

"Well,"  is  the  marchesa's  brief  reply.  She  signs  to 
him  to  lay  his  book  upon  her  desk.  She  takes  it  in  her 
hand.  She  turns  over  the  pages,  following  line  after  line 
with  the  tip  of  her  long,  white  forefinger. 

"  There  seems  very  little,  Silvestro,"  she  says,  running 
her  eyes  up  and  down  each  page  as  she  turns  it  slowly  over. 
Her  brow  knits  until  her  dark  eyebrows  almost  meet — "  very 
little.  Has  the  corn  brought  in  so  small  a  sum,  and  the 
olives,  and  the  grapes  ?  " 

"  Madama,"  begins  Silvestro,  and  he  bends  his  head  and 
shoulders,  and  squeezes  his  skinny  hands  together,  in  a 
desperate  effort  to  obliterate  himself  altogether,  if  possible, 
in  the  face  of  such  mishaps — "  madama  will  condescend  to 
remember  the  late  spring  frosts.  There  is  no  corn  any 
where.  Upon  the  lowlands  the  frost  was  most  severe ;  in 
April,  too,  when  the  grain  was  forward.  The  olives  bore 
a  little  last  season,  but  Corellia  is  a  cold  place — too  cold 
for  olives ;  the  trees,  too,  are  very  old.  This  year  there 
will  be  no  crop  at  all.  As  for  the  grapes — " 

"  Accidente  to  the  grapes ! "  interrupts  the  marchesa, 
reddening.  "  The  grapes  always  fail.  Every  thing  fails 
under  you." 

Silvestro  shrinks  back  in  terror  at  the  sound  of  her  harsh 
voice.  Oh,  that  those  purple  mountains  around  would 
cover  him  !  The  moment  of  her  wrath  is  come.  What  will 
she  say  to  him  ? 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  an  acre  of  vineyard,"  the  marchesa 
continues.  "  Disease,  or  hail,  or  drought,  or  rain,  it  is  al 
ways  the  same — the  grapes  always  fail." 

"  The  peasants  are  starving,  madama,"  Silvestro  takes 
courage  to  say,  but  his  voice  is  low  and  muffled. 

"  They  have  chestnuts,"  she  answers  quickly,  "  let  them 
live  on  chestnuts." 

Silvestro  starts  violently.  He  draws  back  a  step  or  two 
nearer  the  door. 


WHAT  SILVESTRO  SAYS.  219 

"Let  the  gracious  madama  consider,  many  have  not 
even  a  patch  of  chestnuts.  There  is  great  misery,  madama 
— indeed,  there  is  great  misery,"  Silvestro  goes  on  to  say. 
He  must  speak  now  or  never.  "  Madama" — and  he  holds 
up  his  bony  hands — "  you  will  have  no  rent  at  all  from  the 
peasants.  They  must  be  kept  all  the  winter." 

"  Silvestro,  you  are  a  fool,"  cries  the  marchesa,  eying 
him  contemptuously,  as  she  would  do  a  troublesome  child 
— "  a  fool ;  pray  how  am  I  to  keep  the  peasants,  and  pay 
the  taxes  ?  I  must  live." 

"  Doubtless,  excellent  madama."  Silvestro  was  infi 
nitely  relieved  at  the  calmness  with  which  the  marchesa 
received  his  announcement.  He  could  not  have  believed 
it.  He  feels  most  grateful  to  her.  "  But,  if  madama  will 
speak  to  Fra  Pacifico,  he  will  tell  her  how  bitter  the  dis 
tress  must  be  this  winter.  The  Town  Council" — Silves 
tro,  deceived  by  her  apparent  calmness,  has  made  a  mis 
take  in  naming  the  Town  Council.  It  is  too  late.  The 
words  have  been  spoken.  Knowing  his  mistress's  temper, 
Silvestro  imperceptibly  glides  toward  the  door  as  he  men 
tions  that  body — "  The  Town  Council  has  decreed — "  His 
words  die  away  in  his  throat  at  her  aspect. 

"  Santo  dei  Santi ! "  she  screams,  boiling  over  with  rage, 
"  I  forbid  you  to  talk  to  me  of  the  Town  Council !  " 

Silvestro's  hand  is  upon  the  lock  to  insure  escape. 

"  Madama — consider,"  pleads  Silvestro,  wellnigh  desper 
ate.  "  The  Town  Council  might  appeal  to  Barga,"  Silves 
tro  almost  whispers  now. 

"  Let  them — let  them ;  it  is  just  what  I  should  like. 
Let  them  appeal.  I  will  fight  them  at  law,  and  beat  them 
in  full  court — the  ruffians ! "  She  gives  a  short,  scornful 
laugh.  "  Yes,  we  will  fight  it  out  at  Barga." 

Suddenly  the  marchesa  stops.  Her  eyes  have  now 
reached  the  balance-sheet  on  the  last  page.  She  draws  a 
long  breath. 


220  TIIE  ITALIANS. 

"Why,  there  is  nothing!"  she  exclaims,  placing  her 
forefinger  on  the  total,  then  raising  her  head  and  fixing 
her  eyes  on  Silvestro — "  nothing  !  " 

Silvestro  shrinks,  as  it  were,  into  himself.  He  silently 
bows  his  head  in  terrified  acquiescence. 

"  A  thousand  francs !  How  am  I  to  live  on  a  thousand 
francs ! " 

Silvestro  shakes  from  head  to  foot.  One  hand  slides 
from  the  lock ;  he  joins  it  to  the  other,  clasps  them  both 
together,  and  sways  himself  to  and  fro  as  a  man  in  bodily 
anguish. 

At  the  sight  of  the  balance-sheet  a  kind  of  horror  has 
come  over  the  marchesa.  So  intense  is  this  feeling,  she 
absolutely  forgets  to  abuse  Silvestro.  All  she  desires  is 
to  get  rid  of  him  before  she  has  betrayed  her  alarm. 

"I  shall  call  a  council,"  she  says,  collecting  herself; 
"  I  shall  take  the  chair.  I  shall  find  funds  to  meet  these 
wants.  Give  the  sindaco  and  Ser  Giaccmo  notice  of  this, 
Silvestro,  immediately." 

The  steward  stares  at  his  mistress  in  mute  amazement. 
He  inclines  his  head,  and  turns  to  go ;  better  ask  her  no 
questions  and  escape. 

"  Silvestro  !  " — the  marchesa  calls  after  him  imperious 
ly — "  come  here."  (She  is  resolved  that  he,  a  menial,  shall 
see  no  change  in  her.)  "  At  this  season  the  woods  are  full 
of  game.  I  will  have  no  poachers,  mind.  Let  notices  be 
posted  up  at  the  town-gate  and  at  the  church-door — do 
you  hear  ?  No  one  shall  carry  a  gun  within  my  woods." 

Silvestro's  lips  form  to  two  single  words,  and  these 
come  very  faint :  "  The  poor  !  "  Then  he  holds  himself 
together,  terrified. 

"  The  poor  !  "  retorts  the  marchesa,  defiantly — "  the 
poor  !  For  shame,  Silvestro  !  They  shall  not  overrun  my 
woods  and  break  through  my  vineyards — they  shall  not ! 
You  hear  ?  "  Her  shrill  voice  rings  round  the  low  room. 


WHAT  SILVESTRO   SAYS.  221 

"  No  poachers — no  trespassers,  remember  that ;  I  shall  tell 
Adamo  the  same.  Now  go,  and,  as  you  pass,  tell  Fra  Pa- 
cifico  I  want  him  to-morrow."  ("  He  must  help  me  with 
Enrica,"  was  her  thought.) 

"When  Silvestro  was  gone,  a  haggard  look  came  over 
the  marchesa's  pale  face.  One  by  one  she  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  the  rental  lying  before  her,  glanced  at  them,  then 
laid  the  book  down  upon  the  desk.  She  leaned  back  in 
her  chair,  crossed  her  arms,  and  fell  into  a  fit  of  museing — 
the  burning  papers  on  the  hearth,  and  those  also  smoulder 
ing  on  the  floor,  lighting  up  every  grain  in  the  wood-work 
of  the  cupboards  at  her  back. 

This  was  ruin — absolute  ruin  !  The  broad  lands  that 
spread  wellnigh  for  forty  miles  in  the  mountains  and  along 
the  river  Serchio — the  feudal  tower  in  which  she  sat,  over 
which  still  floated,  on  festivals,  the  banner  of  the  Guinigi 
(crosses  of  gold  on  a  red  field — borne  at  the  Crusades)  ; 
the  stately  palace  at  Lucca  —  its  precious  heirlooms  — 
strangers  must  have  it  all ! 

She  had  so  fortified  herself  against  all  signs  of  outward 
emotion,  other  than  she  chose  to  show,  that  even  in  soli 
tude  she  was  composed ;  but  the  veins  swelled  in  her  fore 
head,  and  she  turned  very  white.  Yet  there  had  been  a 
way.  "  Enrica  " — her  name  escaped  the  marchesa's  thin 
lips  unwittingly.  "  Enrica." — The  sound  of  her  own  voice 
startled  her.  (Enrica  was  now  alone,  shut  up  by  her  aunt's 
order  in  her  little  chamber  on  the  third  floor  over  her  own. 
On  their  arrival,  the  marchesa  had  sternly  dismissed  her 
without  a  word.) 

"  Enrica." — With  that  name  rose  up  within  her  a  thou 
sand  conflicting  thoughts.  She  had  severed  herself  from 
Enrica.  But  for  Cavaliere  Trenta  she  would  have  driven 
her  from  the  palace.  She  had  not  cared  whether  Enrica 
lived  or  died — indeed,  she  had  wished  her  dead.  Yet  En 
rica  could  save  the  land — the  palace — make  the  great  name 


222  THE  ITALIANS. 

live  !  Had  she  but  known  all  this  at  Lucca  !  Was  it  too 
late  ?  Trenta  had  urged  the  marriage  with  Count  Nobili. 
But  Trenta  urged  every  marriage.  Could  she  consent  to 
such  a  marriage  ?  Own  herself  ruined — wrong  ? — Feel 
Nobili's  foot  upon  her  neck  ? — Impossible  !  Her  obstinacy 
was  so  great,  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  yield, 
though  all  that  made  life  dear  was  slipping  from  her  grasp. 

Yes — yes,  it  was  too  late. — The  thing  was  done.  She 
must  stand  to  her  own  words.  Tortures  would  not  have 
wrung  it  from  her — but  in  the  solitude  of  that  bare  room 
the  marchesa  felt  she  had  gone  too  far.  The  landmark  of 
her  life,  her  pride,  broke  down ;  her  stout  heart  failed — *• 
tears  stood  in  her  dark  eyes. 

At  this  moment  the  report  of  a  gun  was  heard  ringing 
out  from  the  mountains  opposite.  It  echoed  along  the 
cliffs  and  died  away  into  the  abyss  below.  The  marchesa 
was  instanty  leaning  out  of  the  lowest  loop-hole,  and  calling 
in  a  loud  voice,  "Adamo — Adamo — Angelo,  where  are 
you?"  (Adamo  and  Pipa  his  wife,  and  Angelo  their  son, 
were  her  attendants.) 

Adamo,  a  stout,  big-limbed  man,  bull-necked — with 
large  lazy  eyes  and  a  black  beard  as  thick  as  horse-hair,  a  rifle 
slung  by  a  leather  strap  across  his  chest,  answered  out  of 
the  shrubs — now  blackening  in  the  twilight :  "  I  am  here, 
padrona,  command  me." 

"  Adamo,  who  is  shooting  on  my  land  ?  " 

"  Padrona,  I  do  not  know." 

"  Where  is  Angelo  ?  " 

"  Here  am  I,"  answered  a  childish  voice,  and  a  ragged, 
loose-limbed  lad — a  shock  of  chestnut  hair,  out  of  which 
the  sun  had  taken  all  the  color,  hanging  over  his  face,  from 
which  his  merry  eyes  twinkle — leaped  out  on  the  gravel. 

"  You  do  not  know,  Adamo  ?  What  does  this  mean  ? 
You  ought  to  know.  I  am  but  just  come  back,  and  there 
are  strangers  about  already  with  guns.  Is  this  the  way 


WHAT  SILVESTRO   SAYS.  223 

you  serve  me,  Adamo  ? — and  I  pay  you  a  crown  a  mouth. 
You  idle  vagabond ! " 

u  Padrona,"  spoke  Adamo  in  a  deep  voice — "  I  am  here 
alcne — this  boy  helps  me  but  little." 

"  Alone,  Adamo !  you  dare  to  say  alone,  and  you  have 
the  dogs  ?  Hear  how  they  bark — they  have  heard  the  shot 
too — good  dogs,  good  dogs,  they  are  left  me — alone. — 
Why,  Argo  is  stronger  than  three  men ;  Argo  knocks  over 
any  one,  and  he  is  trained  to  follow  on  the  scent  like  a 
bloodhound.  Adamo,  you  are  an  idiot ! "  Adamo  hung 
his  head,  either  in  shame  or  rage,  but  he  dared  not  reply. 

"  Now  take  the  dogs  out  with  you  instantly — you  hear, 
Adamo  ?  Argo,  and  Ponto  the  bull-dog,  and  Tuzzi  and 
the  others.  Take  them  and  go  down  at  once  to  the  bottom 
of  the  cliffs.  Search  among  the  rocks  everywhere.  Creep 
along  the  vines-terraces,  and  through  the  olive-grounds. 
Be  sure  when  you  go  down  below  the  cliffs  to  search  the 
mouth  of  the  chasm.  Go  at  once.  Set  the  dogs  on  all  you 
find.  Argo  will  pin  them.  He  is  a  brave  dog.  With 
Argo  you  are  stronger  than  any  one  you  will  meet.  If 
yon  catch  any  men,  take  them  at  once  to  the  municipal 
ity.  Wretches,  they  deserve  it ! — poaching  in  my  woods ! 
Listen — before  you  go,  tell  Pipa  to  come  to  me  soon." 

Pipa's  footsteps  came  clattering  up  the  stairs  to  the 
marchesa's  room.  The  light  of  the  lamp  she  carried — for 
it  was  already  dark  within  the  tower — caught  the  spray 
of  the  fountain  outside  as  she  passed  the  narrow  slits  that 
served  for  windows. 

"  Pipa,"  said  the  marchesa,  as  she  stood  before  her  in 
the  doorway,  a  broad  smile  on  her  merry  brown  face,  "  set 
that  lamp  on  the  desk  here  before  me.  So — that  will  do. 
Now  go  up-stairs  and  tell  the  Signorina  Enrica  that  I  bid 
her  '  Good-night,'  and  that  I  will  see  her  to-morrow  morn 
ing  after  breakfast.  Then  you  may  go  to  bed,  Pipa.  I 
am  busy,  and  shall  sit  up  late."  Pipa  curtesied  in  silence, 
and  closed  the  marchesa's  door. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHAT   CAME    OF   BURNING  THE   MARCUESA's   PAPERS. 

MIDXIGHT  had  struck  from  the  church-clock  at  Corellia. 
The  strokes  seemed  to  come  slower  by  night  than  day,  and 
sounded  hollower.  Hours  ago  the  last  light  had  gone  out. 
The  moon  had  set  behind  the  cleft  summits  of  La  Pagna. 
Distant  thunder  had  died  away  among  the  rocks.  The 
night  was  close  and  still.  The  villa  lay  in  deep  shadow, 
but  the  outline  of  the  turrets  of  the  tower  were  clearly 
marked  against  the  starry  sky.  All  slept,  or  seemed  to 
sleep. 

A  thin  blue  vapor  curls  out  from  the  marchesa's  case 
ment.  This  vapor,  at  first  light  as  a  fog-drift,  winds  itself 
upward,  and  settles  into  a  cloud,  that  hovers  in  the  air. 
Each  moment  the  cloud  rises  higher  and  higher.  Now  it 
has  grown  into  a  lurid  canopy,  that  overhangs  the  tower. 
A  sudden  glow  from  an  arched  loop-hole  on  the  second 
story  shows  every  bar  of  iron  across  it.  This  is  caught  up 
below  in  a  broad  flash  across  the  basin  of  the  fountain. 
Within  there  is  a  crackling  as  of  dry  leaves — a  clinging, 
heavy  smell  of  heated  air.  Another  and  another  flame 
curls  round  the  narrow  loop-hole,  twisting  upward  on  the 
solid  wall. 

At  this  instant  there  is  a  low  growl,  as  from  a  kicked 
dog.  A  door  below  is  banared-to  and  locked.  Then  steps 


THE  BURNED  PAPERS.  225 

are  heard  upon  the  gravel.  It  is  Adamo.  He  had  re 
turned,  as  the  marchesa  bade  him,  and  has  come  to  tell  her 
he  has  searched  everywhere — down  even  to  the  reeds  by 
the  river  Serchio  (where  he  had  discharged  his  gun  at  a 
water-hen),  but  had  found  no  one,  though  all  the  way  the 
dogs  had  sniffed  and  whined. 

Adamo  catches  sight  of  the  crimson  glare  reflected  upon 
the  fountain.  He  looks  up  at  the  tower — he  sees  the  flames. 
A  look  of  horror  comes  into  his  round  black  eyes.  Then, 
with  a  twitch,  settling  his  gun  firmly  upon  his  shoulder,  he 
rushes  to  the  unlocked  door  and  flings  it  wide  open. 

"Pipa  !  Wife !  Angelo !  "  Adamo  shouts  down  the  stone 
passage  connecting  the  tower  with  the  villa  where  they 
slept.  "  Wake  up !  The  tower  is  on  fire!  Fire !  Fire ! " 

As  Adam  opened  his  mouth,  the  rush  of  hot  air,  pent 
upon  the  winding  stair,  drawn  downward  by  the  draught 
from  the  open  door,  catches  his  breath.  He  staggers  against 
the  wall.  Then  the  strong  man  shook  himself  together — 
again  he  shouts,  "  Pipa !  Pipa  !  rise  !  " 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  putting  his  hand  over 
his  mouth,  Adamo  charges  up  the  stone  stairs — up  to  the 
marchesa's  door.  Her  room  is  on  fire. 

"  I  must  save  her !  I  must  save  her !  I  will  think  of 
Pipa  and  the  children  afterward." 

Each  step  Adamo  takes  upward,  the  heat  grows  fiercer, 
the  smoke  that  pours  down  denser.  Twice  he  had  slipped 
and  almost  fallen,  but  he  battles  bravely  with  the  heat  and 
blinding  smoke,  and  keeps  his  footing. 

Now  Adamo  is  on  the  landing  of  the  first  floor — Adamo 
blinded,  his  head  reeling — but  lifting  his  strong  limbs,  and 
firm  broad  feet,  he  struggles  upward.  He  has  reached  the 
marchesa's  door.  The  place  is  marked  by  a  chink  of  fire 
underneath.  Adamo  passes  his  hand  over  the  panel ;  it  is 
unconsumed,  the  fire  drawing  the  other  way  out  by  the 
window. 


226  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  O  God !  if  the  door  is  bolted  !  I  shall  drop  if  I  am 
not  quick."  Adamo's  fingers  were  on  the  lock.  "  The 
door  is  bolted  1  Blessed  Virgin,  help  me  ! " 

He  unslings  his  unloaded  gun — he  had  forgotten  it  till 
then — and,  tightly  seizing  it  in  his  strong  hands,  he  flings 
the  butt  end  against  the  lock.  The  wood  is  old,  the  bolt 
is  loose. 

"  Holy  Jesus !     It  yields !     It  opens ! " 

Overcome  by  the  rush  of  fiery  air,  again  Adamo  stag 
gers.  As  he  lifts  his  hands  to  raise  the  hair,  which,  moist 
from  heat,  clings  to  his  forehead,  his  fingers  strike  against 
a  medal  of  the  Virgin  he  wore  round  his  naked  throat. 

"  Mother  of  God,  help  me  ! "  A  desperate  courage 
seizes  him ;  he  rushes  in — all  before  him  swims  in  a  red 
mist.  "  Help  me,  Madonna  !"  comes  to  his  parched  lips. 
"  O  God,  where  is  the  marchesa  ?  " 

A  puff  of  wind  from  the  open  door  for  an  instant  raised 
the  smoke  and  sparks ;  in  that  instant  Adamo  sees  a  dark 
heap  lying  on  the  floor  close  to  the  door.  It  is  the  mar 
chesa.  "  Is  she  dead  or  alive  ?  "  He  cannot  stop  to  tell. 
He  raises  her.  She  lay  within  his  arms.  Her  dark  dress, 
though  not  consumed,  strikes  hot  against  his  chest.  Not 
an  instant  is  to  be  lost.  The  fresh  rush  of  air  up  the  stairs 
has  fanned  the  flames.  Every  moment  they  are  rising 
higher.  They  redden  on  the  dark  rafters  of  the  ceiling. 
The  sparks  fly  about  in  dazzling  clouds.  Adamo  is  on  the 
threshold.  Outside  it  is  now  so  dark  that,  spite  of  danger,  he 
has  to  pause  and  feel  his  way  downward,  or  he  might  dash 
his  precious  burden  against  the  walls.  In  that  pause  a 
piercing  cry  from  above  strikes  upon  his  ear,  but  in  the 
crackling  of  the  increasing  flames  and  a  fresh  torrent  of 
smoke  and  burning  sparks  that  burst  out  from  the  room, 
Adamo's  brain — always  of  the  dullest — is  deadened.  He 
forgets  that  cry.  All  his  thought  is  to  save  his  mistress. 
Even  Pipa  and  Angelo  and  little  Gigi  are  forgotten. 


THE  BURNED  PAPERS.  227 

Ere  he  reaches  the  level  of  the  6rst  story,  the  alarm-bell 
over  his  head  clangs  out  a  goodly  peal.  A  bound  of  joy 
within  his  honest  heart  gives  him  fresh  courage. 

"  It  is  the  Madonna  1  When  I  touched  her  image,  I 
knew  that  she  would  help  me.  Pipa  has  heard  me.  Pipa 
has  pulled  the  bell.  She  is  safe !  And  Angelo — and  little 
Gigi,  safe !  safe !  Brave  Pipa  !  How  I  love  her !  " 

Before  a  watch  could  tick  twenty  seconds,  and  while 
Adamo's  foot  was  still  on  the  last  round  of  the  winding 
stair,  the  church-bells  of  Corellia  clash  out  in  answer  to  the 
alarm-bell 

Now  Adamo  has  reached  the  outer  door.  He  stands 
beneath  the  stars.  His  face  and  hands  are  black,  his 
hair  is  singed ;  his  woolen  clothes  are  hot  and  burn  upon 
him.  The  cool  night  air  makes  his  skin  smart  with  pain. 
Already  Pipa's  arms  are  round  him.  Angelo,  too,  has 
caught  him  by  the  legs,  then  leaps  into  the  air  with  a  wild 
hoot.  Bewildered  Pipa  cannot  speak.  No  more  can 
Adamo ;  but  Pipa's  clinging  arms  say  more  than  words. 
Tenderly  Adamo  lays  the  marchesa  down  beside  the  foun 
tain.  He  totters  on  a  step  or  two,  feeling  suddenly  giddy 
and  strangely  weak.  He  stands  still.  The  strain  had 
been  too  much  for  the  simple  soul,  who  led  a  quiet  life 
with  Pipa  and  the  children.  Tears  rise  in  his  big  black 
eyes.  Greatly  ashamed,  and  wondering  what  has  come  to 
him,  he  sinks  upon  the  ground.  Pipa,  watching  him,  again 
flings  her  arms  about  him ;  but  Adamo  gave  her  a  glance 
so  fierce,  as  he  points  to  the  marchesa  lying  helpless  upon 
the  ground,  it  sent  her  quickly  from  him.  With  a  smoth 
ered  sob  Pipa  turns  away  to  help  her. 

(Ah  !  cruel  Pipa,  and  is  your  heart  so  full  that  you  have 
forgotten  Enrica,  left  helpless  in  the  tower? — Yet  so  it 
was.  Enrica  is  forgotten.  Cruel,  cruel  Pipa !  And  stupid 
Adamo,  whose  head  turns  round  so  fast  he  must  hold  on 
by  a  tree  not  to  fall  again.) 


238  THE  ITALIANS. 

Silvestro  and  Fra  Pacifico  now  rushed  out  of  the  dark 
ness  ;  Fra  Pacifico  aroused  out  of  his  first  sleep.  He  had 
not  seen  the  marchesa  since  her  arrival.  He  did  not  know 
whether-  Enrica  had  come  with  her  from  Lucca  or  not. 
Seeing1  Pipa  busy  about  the  fountain,  the  women,  thought 
Fra  Pacifico,  were  safe ;  so  Fra  Pacifico  strode  off  on  his 
strong  legs  to  see  what  could  be  done  to  quench  the  fire, 
and  save,  if  possible,  the  more  combustible  villa.  Surely 
the  villa  must  be  consumed  !  The  smoke  now  darkened 
the  heavens.  The  flames  belted  the  thick  tower-walls 
as  with  a  burning  girdle.  Showers  of  sparks  and  flames 
rose  out  from  each  aperture  with  sudden  bursts,  revealing 
every  detail  on  the  gray  old  walls ;  moss  and  lichen,  a  trail 
of  ivy  that  had  forced  itself  upward,  long  grass  that  floated 
in  the  hot  air;  a  crevice  under  the  battlements  where  a 
bird  had  built  its  nest.  Then  a  swirl  of  smoke  swooped 
down  and  smothered  all,  while  overhead  the  mighty  com 
pany  of  constellations  looked  calmly  down  in  their  cold 
brightness  ! 

A  crowd  of  men  now  came  running  down  from  Corellia, 
roused  by  the  church-bells.  Pietro,  the  baker,  still  hard  at 
work,  was  the  first  to  hear  the  bell,  to  dash  into  the  street, 
and  shout,  "  Help !  help !  Fire  !  fire  !  At  the  villa ! " 

Oreste  and  Pilade  heard  him.  They  came  tumbling 
out.  Ser  Giacomo  roused  the  sindaco — who  in  his  turn 
woke  his  clerk ;  but  when  Mr.  Sindaco  was  fairly  off  down 
the  hill,  this  much-injured  and  very  weary  youth  turned 
back  and  went  to  bed. 

Some  bore  lighted  torches,  others  copper  buckets.  Pie 
tro,  the  butcher,  brought  the  municipal  ladder.  These  men 
promptly  formed  a  line  down  the  hill,  to  carry  the  water 
from  the  willful  mountain-stream  that  fed  the  town  fountain. 
Fra  Pacifico  took  the  lead.  (He  had  heard  the  alarm,  and 
had  rung  the  churqh-bells  himself.)  No  one  cared  for  the 
marchesa ;  but  a  burning  house  was  a  fine  sight,  and  where 


THE  BURNED  PAPERS.  229 

Fra  Pacifico  went  all  Corellia  followed.  Adamo,  recovered 
now,  was  soon  upon  the  ladder,  receiving  the  buckets  from 
below.  Pipa  beside  the  fountain  watched  the  marchesa, 
sprinkling  water  on  her  face.  "Surely  her  eyelids  faintly 
quiver ! "  thinks  Pipa. — Pipa  watched  the  marchesa  speech 
less — watched  her  as  birth  and  death  are  only  watched ! 

The  marchesa's  eyes  had  quivered;  now  they  slowly 
unclose.  Pipa,  who,  next  to  the  Virgin  and  the  saints, 
worshiped  her  mistress — laughed  wildly — sobbed — then 
laughed  again — kissed  her  hand,  her  forehead — then 
pressed  her  in  her  arms.  Supported  by  Pipa,  the  mar 
chesa  sat  up — she  turned,  and  then  she  saw  the  mountains 
of  smoke  bursting  from  the  tower,  forming  into  great 
clouds  that  rose  over  the  tree-tops,  and  shut  out  the  stars. 
The  marchesa  glanced  quickly  round  with  her  keen,  black 
eyes — she  glanced  as  one  searching  for  some  thing  she  can 
not  find;  then  her  lips  parted,  and  one  word  fell  faintly 
from  them :  "  Enrica ! " 

Pipa  caught  the  half-uttered  name,  she  echoed  it  with 
a  scream. 

"  Ahi !     The  signorina  !     The  Signorina  Enrica ! " 

Pipa  shouted  to  Adamo  on  the  ladder. 

"  Adamo  !  Adamo  !  where  is  the  signorina  ?  " 

Adamo's  heart  sank  at  her  voice.  On  the  instant  he 
recalled  that  cry  he  had  heard  upon  the  stairs. 

"  Where  did  you  see  her  last  ?  "  Adamo  shouted  back 
to  Pipa  out  of  the  din — his  big  stupid  eyes  looking  down 
upon  her  face.  "  Up-stairs  ?  " 

Pipa  nodded.     She  could  not  speak,  it  was  too  horrible. 

"Santo  Dio!  I  did  not  know  it!"  He  struck  upon 
his  breast.  "Assassin !  I  have  killed  her !  Assassin ! 
Beast !  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

Again  the  air  rang  with  Pipa's  shrill  cries.  The  Co 
rellia  men,  who  with  eager  hands  pass  the  buckets  down 
the  hill,  stop,  and  stare,  and  wonder.  Fra  Pacifico,  \vho 


230  THE  ITALIANS. 

had  eyes  and  ears  for  every  one,  turned,  and  ran  forward  to 
where  Pipa  sat  wringing  her  hands  upon  the  ground,  the 
marchesa  leaning  against  her. 

"  Is  Enrica  in  the  tower  ?  "  asked  Fra  Pacifico. 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  the  marchesa  answered  feebly.  "  You 
must  save  her  !  " 

"  Then  follow  me ! "  shouted  the  priest,  swinging  his 
strong  arms  above  his  head. 

Adamo  leaped  from  the  ladder.  Others — they  were 
among  the  very  poorest — stepped  out  and  joined  him  and 
the  priest;  but  at  the  very  entrance  they  were  met  and 
buffeted  by  such  a  gust  of  fiery  wind,  such  sparks  and 
choking  smoke,  that  they  all  fell  back  aghast.  Fra  Pacifico 
alone  stood  unmoved,  his  tall,  burly  figure  dark  against  the 
glare.  At  this  instant  a  man  wrapped  in  a  cloak  rushed 
out  of  the  wood,  crossed  the  red  circle  reflected  from  the 
fire,  and  dashed  into  the  archway. 

"  Stop  him !  stop  him  ! "  shouted  Adamo  from  behind. 

"  You  go  to  certain  death  !  "  cried  Fra  Pacifico,  laying 
his  hand  upon  him. 

"  I  am  prepared  to  die,"  the  other  answered,  and  pushed 
by  him. 

Twice  he  essayed  to  mount  the  stairs.  Twice  he  was 
driven  back  before  them  all.  See !  He  has  covered  his 
head  with  his  cloak.  He  has  set  his  foot  firmly  upon  the 
stone  steps.  Up,  up  he  mounts — now  he  is  gone !  With 
out  there  was  a  breathless  silence.  "  Who  is  he  ? — Can 
he  save  her?" — Words  were  not  spoken,  but  every  eye 
asked  this  question.  The  men  without  are  brave,  ready  to 
face  danger  in  dark  alley — by  stream  or  river — or  on  the 
mountain-side.  Danger  is  pastime  to  them,  but  each  one 
feels  in  his  own  heart  he  is  glad  not  to  go.  Fra  Pacifico 
stands  motionless,  a  sad  stern  look  upon  his  swarthy  face. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  has  not  been  foremost  in 
danger ! 


THE  BURNED  PAPERS.  231 

By  this  time,  Fra  Pacifico  thinks,  unless  choked,  the 
stranger  must  be  near  the  upper  story. 

The  marchesa  has  now  risen.  She  stands  upright,  her 
eyes  riveted  on  the  tower.  She  knows  there  is  a  door  that 
opens  from  the  top  of  the  winding  stair,  on  the  highest 
story,  next  Enrica's  room,  a  door  out  on  the  battlements. 
Will  the  stranger  see  it  ?  O  God !  will  he  see  it  ? — or  is 
the  smoke  too  thick  ? — or  has  he  fainted  ere  he  reached  so 
high  ? — or,  if  he  has  reached  her,  is  Enrica  dead  ?  How 
heavy  the  moments  pass — weighted  with  life  or  death  1 
Look,  look !  Surely  something  moves  between  the  turrets 
of  the  tower !  Yes,  something  moves.  It  rises — a  muffled 
form  between  the  turrets — the  figure  of  a  man  wrapped  in 
a  cloak — on  the  near  side  out  of  the  smoke  and  flames. 
Yes — it  is  the  stranger — Enrica  in  his  arms  !  All  is  clear 
ly  seen,  cut  as  it  were  against  a  crimson  background.  A 
shout  rises  from  every  living  man — a  deep,  full  shout  as 
out  of  bursting  hearts  that  vent  themselves.  Out  of  the 
shout  the  words  ring  out — "  The  steps ! — the  steps ! — There 
— to  the  right — cut  in  the  battlements  1  The  steps  1 — the 
steps! — close  by  the  flagstaff!  Pass  the  steps  down  to 
the  lower  roof  of  the  villa."  (The  wind  set  on  the  oth 
er  side,  drawing  the  fire  that  way.  The  villa  was  not 
touched.) 

The  stranger  heard  and  bowed  his  head.  He  has  found 
the  steps — he  has  reached  the  lower  roof  of  the  villa — he 
is  safe ! 

No  one  below  had  moved.  The  hands  by  which  the 
water  was  passed  were  now  laid  upon  the  ladder.  It  was 
shifted  over  to  the  other  side  against  the  villa  walls. 
Adamo  and  Fra  Pacifico  stand  upon  the  lower  rungs,  to 
steady  it.  The  stranger  throws  his  cloak  below,  the  better 
to  descend. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  That  strong,  well-knit  frame,  those 
square  shoulders,  that  curly  chestnut  hair,  the  pleasant 


232  THE  ITALIANS. 

smile  upon  his  glowing  face,  proclaim  him.  It  is  Count 
Nobili !  He  has  lands  along  the  Serchio,  between  Barga 
and  Corellia,  and  was  well  known  as  a  keen  sportsman. 

"  Bravo  1  bravo  !  Evviva !  Count  Nobili  —  evviva  !  " 
Caps  were  tossed  into  the  air,  hands  were  wildly  clapped, 
friendly  arms  are  stretched  out  to  bear  him  up  when  he  de 
scends.  Adamo  is  wildly  excited ;  Adamo  wants  to  mount 
the  ladder  to  help.  The  others  pull  him  back.  Fra  Pa- 
cifico  stands  ready  to  receive  Enrica,  a  baffled  look  on  his 
face.  It  is  the  first  time  Fra  Pacifico  has  stood  by  and  seen 
another  do  his  work. 

See,  Count  Nobili  is  on  the  ladder,  Enrica  in  his  arms  ! 
As  his  feet  touch  the  ground,  again  the  people  shout : 
"  Bravo  !  Count  Nobili !  Evviva  !  "  Their  hot  southern 
blood  is  roused  by  the  sight  of  such  noble  daring.  The 
people  press  upon  him — they  fold  him  in  their  arms — they 
kiss  his  hands,  his  cheeks,  even  his  very  feet. 

Nobili's  eyes  flash.  He,  too,  forgets  all  else,  and,  with 
a  glance  that  thrills  Enrica  from  head  to  foot,  he  kisses 
her  before  them  all.  The  men  circle  round  him.  They  shout 
louder  than  before. 

As  the  crowd  parted,  the  dark  figure  of  the  marchesa, 
standing  near  the  fountain,  was  disclosed.  Before  she  had 
time  to  stir,  Count  Nobili  had  led  Enrica  to  her.  He  knelt 
upon  the  ground,  and,  kissing  Enrica's  hand,  placed  it  with 
in  her  own.  Then  he  rose,  and,  with  that  grace  natural  to 
him,  bowed  and  stood  aside,  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

The  marchesa  neither  moved  nor  did  she  speak.  When 
she  felt  the  warm  touch  of  Enrica's  hand  within  her  own, 
it  seemed  to  rouse  her.  She  drew  her  toward  her  and 
kissed  her  with  more  love  than  she  had  ever  shown  before. 

"  I  thank  you,  Count  Nobili,"  she  said,  in  a  strange, 
cold  voice.  Even  at  that  moment  she  could  not  bring  her 
self  to  look  him  in  the  face.  "  You  have  saved  my  niece's 
life." 


THE   BURNED   PAPERS.  233 

"  Madame,"  replied  Nobili,  his  sweet-toned  voice  trem 
bling,  "  I  have  saved  my  own.  Had  Enrica  perished,  I 
should  not  have  lived." 

In  these  few  words  the  chivalric  nature  of  the  man  spoke 
out.  The  maichesa  waved  her  hand.  She  was  stately 
even  now.  Nobili  understood  her  gesture,  and,  stung  to 
the  very  soul,  he  drew  back. 

"  Permit  me,"  he  said,  haughtily,  before  he  turned  away, 
"  to  add  my  help  to  those  who  are  laboring  to  save  your 
house." 

The  marchesa  bowed  her  head  in  acquiescence ;  then, 
with  unsteady  steps,  she  moved  backward  and  seated  her 
self  upon  the  ground. 

Pipa,  meanwhile,  had  flung  her  arms  about  Enrica,  with 
such  an  energy  that  she  pinned  her  to  the  spot.  Pipa 
pressed  her  hands  about  Enrica,  feeling  every  limb  ;  Pipa 
turned  Enrica's  white  face  upward  to  the  blaze  ;  she  stroked 
her  long,  fair  hair  that  fell  like  a  mantle  round  her. 

"  Blessed  Mother ! "  she  sobbed,  drawing  her  coarse  fin 
gers  through  the  matted  curls,  "  not  a  hair  singed  1  Oh, 
the  noble  count !  Oh,  how  I  love  him — " 

"  No,  dear  Pipa,"  Enrica  answered,  softly,  "  I  am  not 
hurt — only  frightened.  The  fire  had  but  just  reached  the 
door  when  he  came.  He  was  just  in  time." 

"  To  think  we  had  forgotten  her  !  "  murmured  Pipa,  still 
holding  her  tightly. 

"  Who  remembered  me  first  ?  "  asked  Enrica,  eagerly. 

"  The  marchesa,  signorina,  the  marchesa.  She  remem 
bered  you.  The  marchesa  was  brought  down  by  Adamo. 
Your  name  was  the  first  word  she  uttered." 

Enrica's  blue  eyes  glistened.  In  an  instant  she  had  dis 
engaged  herself  from  Pipa,  and  was  kneeling  at  the  mar- 
chesa's  feet. 

"  Dear  aunt,  forgive  me.  Now  that  I  am  saved,  forgive 
me  !  You  must  forgive  me,  and  forgive  him,  too  !  " 


234  THE   ITALIANS. 

These  last  words  came  faint  and  low.  The  marchesa 
put  her  finger  on  her  lip. 

"  Not  now,  Enrica,  not  now.    To-morrow  we  will  speak." 

Meanwhile  Count  Nobili,  Fra  Pacifico,  and  the  Corellia 
men,  strove  what  human  strength  could  do  to  put  the  fire 
out.  Even  the  sindaco,  forgetting  the  threats  about  his 
rent,  labored  hard  and  willingly — only  Silvestro  did  nothing. 
Silvestro  seemed  stunned  ;  he  sat  upon  the  ground  staring, 
and  crying  like  a  child. 

To  save  the  rooms  within  the  tower  was  impossible. 
Every  plank  of  wood  was  burning.  The  ceilings  had  fallen 
in  ;  only  the  blackened  walls  and  stone  stairs  remained. 
The  villa  was  untouched — the  wind,  setting  the  other  way, 
and  the  thick  walls  of  the  tower,  had  saved  it. 

Now  every  hand  that  could  be  spared  was  turned  to 
bring  beds  from  the  steward's  for  the  marchesa  and  Enrica. 
They  had  gone  into  Pipa's  room  until  the  villa  was  made 
ready.  Pipa  told  Adamo,  and  he  told  the  others,  that  the 
marchesa  had  not  seen  the  burning  papers,  and  the  lighted 
pile  of  wood,  until  the  flames  rose  high  behind  her  back. 
She  had  rushed  forward,  and  fallen. 

When  all  was  over,  Count  Nobili  was  carried  up  the 
hill  back  to  Corellia,  in  triumph,  on  the  shoulders  of  Pietro 
the  baker,  and  Oreste,  the  strongest  of  the  brothers.  Every 
soul  of  the  poor  townsfolk — women  as  well  as  men  who  had 
not  gone  down  to  help — had  risen,  and  was  out.  They 
had  put  lights  into  their  windows.  They  crowded  the 
doorways.  The  market-place  was  full,  and  the  church- 
porch.  The  fame  of  Nobili's  courage  had  already  reached 
them.  All  bless  him  as  he  passes — bless  him  louder  when 
Nobili,  all  aglow  with  happiness,  empties  his  pockets  of  all 
the  coin  he  has,  and  promises  more  to-morrow.  At  this 
the  women  lay  hold  of  him,  and  dance  round  him.  It  was 
long  before  he  was  released.  At  last  Fra  Pacifico  carried 
him  off,  almost  by  force,  to  sleep  at  the  curato. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHAT   A  PRIEST  SHOULD  BE. 

FRA  PACIFICO  was  a  dark,  burly  man,  with  a  large, 
weather-beaten  face,  kind  gray  eyes  under  a  pair  of  shaggy 
eyebrows,  a  resolute  nose,  large,  full-lipped  mouth,  and  a 
clean-shaven  double  chin,  that  rested  comfortably  upon  his 
priestly  stock.  He  was  no  longer  young,  but  he  had  a 
frame  like  iron,  and  in  his  time  he  had  possessed  a  force  of 
arm  and  muscle  enough  to  fell  an  ox.  His  strength  and 
daring  were  acknowledged  by  all  the  mountain-folks  from 
Corellia  to  Barga,  hardy  fellows,  and  judges  of  what  a  man 
can  do.  Moreover,  Fra  Pacifico  was  more  than  six  feet 
high — and  who  does  not  respect  a  man  of  such  inches? 
In  fair  fight  he  had  killed  his  man — a  brigand  chief — who 
prowled  about  the  mountains  toward  Carrara.  His  band 
had  fled  and  never  returned. 

Fra  Pacifico  had  stood  with  his  strong  feet  planted  on 
the  earth,  over  the  edge  of  a  rocky  precipice — by  which 
the  high-road  passed — and  seized  a  furious  horse  dragging 
a  cart  holding  six  poor  souls  below.  Fra  Pacifico  had 
found  a  shepherd  of  Corellia — one  of  his  flock — struck 
down  by  fever  on  a  rocky  peak  some  twenty  miles  distant, 
and  he  had  carried  him  on  his  back,  and  laid  him  on  his 
bed  at  home.  Every  one  had  some  story  to  tell  of  his 
prowess,  coolness,  and  manly  daring.  When  he  walked 


236  THE  ITALIANS. 

along  the  streets,  the  ragged  children — as  black  with  sun 
and  dirt  as  unfledged  ravens — sidled  up  to  him,  and,  look 
ing  up  into  his  gray  eyes,  ran  between  his  firm-set  legs, 
plucked  him  by  the  cassock,  and  felt  in  his  pockets  for  an 
apple  or  a  cake.  Then  the  children  held  him  tight  until 
he  had  raised  them  up  and  kissed  them. 

Spite  of  the  labors  of  the  previous  night  (no  one  had 
worked  harder),  Fra  Pacifico  had  risen  with  daybreak.  His 
office  accustomed  him  to  little  sleep.  There  was  no  time 
by  day  or  night  that  he  could  call  his  own.  If  any  one 
was  stricken  with  sickness  in  the  night,  or  suddenly  seized 
for  death  in  those  pale  hours  when  the  day  hovers,  half- 
born,  over  the  slumbering  earth,  Fra  Pacifico  must  rise 
and  wake  his  acolyte,  the  baker's  boy,  who,  going  late  to 
bed,  was  hard  to  rouse.  Along  with  him  he  must  grope 
up  and  down  slippery  steps,  and  along  dark  alleys,  bearing 
the  Host  under  a  red  umbrella,  until  he  had  placed  it  within 
the  dying  lips.  If  a  baby  was  weakly,  or  born  before  its 
time,  and,  having  given  one  look  at  this  sorrowful  world, 
was  about  to  lose  its  eyes  on  it  forever,  Fra  Pacifico  must 
run  out  at  any  moment  to  christen  it. 

There  was  no  doctor  at  Corellia,  the  people  were  too 
poor ;  so  Fra  Pacifico  was  called  upon  to  do  a  doctor's  duty. 
He  must  draw  the  teeth  of  such  as  needed  it ;  bind  up  cuts 
and  sores ;  set  limbs ;  and  give  such  simple  drugs  as  he 
knew  the  nature  of.  He  must  draw  up  papers  for  those 
who  could  not  afford  to  pay  the  notary ;  write  letters  for 
those  who  could  only  make  a  cross ;  hear  and  conceal  every 
secret  that  reached  him  in  the  confessional  or  on  the  death 
bed.  He  must  be  at  hand  at  any  hour  in  the  twenty-four 
— ready  to  counsel,  soothe,  command,  and  reprimand ;  to 
bless,  to  curse,  and,  if  need  be,  to  strike,  when  his  right 
eous  anger  rose ;  to  fetch  and  carry  for  all,  and,  poor 
himself,  to  give  out  of  his  scanty  store.  These  were  his 
priestly  duties. 


WHAT  A  PRIEST  SHOULD  BE.  237 

Fra  Pacifico  lived  at  the  back  of  the  old  Lombard 
church  of  Santa  Barbara,  in  a  house  overlooking  a  damp 
square,  overgrown  with  moss  and  weeds.  Between  the 
tower  where  the  bells  hung,  and  the  body  of  the  church, 
an  open  loggia  (balcony),  roofed  with  wood  and  tiles, 
rested  on  slender  pillars.  In  the  loggia,  Fra  Pacifico, 
when  at  leisure,  would  sit  and  rest  and  read  his  breviary ; 
sometimes  smoke  a  solitary  pipe — stretching  out  his  shape 
ly  legs  in  the  luxury  of  doing  nothing.  Behind  the  loggia 
were  the  priest's  four  rooms,  bare  even  for  the  bareness  of 
that  squalid  place.  He  kept  no  servant,  but  it  was  counted 
an  honor  to  serve  him,  and  the  mothers  of  Corellia  came 
by  turns  to  cook  and  wash  for  him. 

Fra  Pacifico,  as  I  have  said,  had  risen  at  daybreak. 
Now  he  is  searching  to  find  a  messenger  to  send  to  Lucca, 
as  the  marchesa  had  desired,  to  summon  Cavaliere  Trenta. 
That  done,  he  takes  a  key  out  of  his  pocket  and  unlocks 
the  church-door.  Here,  kneeling  at  the  altar,  he  celebrates 
a  private  mass  of  thanksgiving  for  the  marchesa  and  En- 
rica.  Then,  with  long  strides,  he  descends  the  hill  to  see 
what  is  doing  at  the  villa. 


CHAPTER  V. 
"SAY  NOT  TOO  MUCH." 

THE  sun  was  streaming  on  mountain  and  forest  before 
Count  Nobili  woke  from  a  deep  sleep.  As  he  cast  his 
drowsy  eyes  around  upon  the  homely  little  room,  the 
coarsely-painted  frescoes  on  the  walls — the  gaudy  cups  and 
plates  arranged  in  a  cupboard  opposite  the  bed — and  on  a 
wax  Gesu  Bambino,  placed  in  state  upon  the  mantel-piece, 
surrounded  by  a  flock  of  blue  sheep,  browsing  on  purple 
grass,  he  could  not  at  first  remember  where  he  was.  The 
noises  from  the  square  below — the  clink  of  the  donkeys' 
hoofs  upon  the  pavement  as  they  struggled  up  the  steep 
alley  laden  with  charcoal ;  the  screams  of  children — the 
clamor  of  women's  voices  moving  to  and  fro  with  their 
wooden  shoes — and  the  boom  of  the  church-bells  sound 
ing  overhead  for  morning  mass — came  to  him  as  in  a 
dream. 

As  he  raised  his  hand  to  push  back  the  hair  which  fell 
over  his  eyes,  a  sharp  twitch  of  pain — for  his  hands  were 
scorched  and  blistered — brought  all  that  had  happened 
vividly  before  him.  A  warmth  of  joy  and  love  glowed  at 
his  heart.  He  had  saved  Enrica's  life.  Henceforth  that 
life  was  his.  From  that  day  they  would  never  part.  From 
that  day,  forgetting  all  others,  he  would  live  for  her  alone. 

He  must  see  her  instantly — if  possible,  before  his  en- 


"SAY  NOT  TOO  MUCH."  239 

emy,  her  aunt,  had  risen — see  Enrica,  and  speak  to  her, 
alone.  Oh,  the  luxury  of  that !  How  he  longed  to  feast 
his  eyes  upon  the  softness  of  her  beauty !  To  fill  his  ears 
with  the  music  of  her  voice !  To  touch  her  little  hand,  and 
scent  the  fragrance  of  her  breath  upon  his  cheek  !  There 
was  no  thought  within  Nobili  but  love  and  loyalty.  At 
that  moment  Enrica  was  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
whom  he  loved,  or  ever  could  love ! 

He  dressed  himself  in  haste,  opened  the  door,  and 
stepped  out  into  the  loggia.  Not  finding  Fra  Pacifico 
there,  or  in  the  other  rooms,  he  passed  down  the  stone  steps 
into  the  little  square,  threading  his  way  beyond  as  he  best 
could,  through  the  tortuous  little  alleys  toward  the  gate. 
Most  of  the  men  had  already  gone  to  work ;  but  such  as 
lingered,  or  whose  business  kept  them  at  home,  rose  as  he 
passed,  and  bared  their  heads  to  him.  The  mothers  and  the 
girls  stared  at  him  and  smiled ;  troops  of  children  followed 
at  his  heels  through  the  town,  until  he  reached  the  gate. 

"Without,  the  holiness  of  Nature  was  around.  The 
morning  air  blew  upon  him  crisp  and  clear.  The  sky,  blue 
as  a  turquoise,  was  unbroken  by  a  cloud.  The  trees  were 
bathed  in  gold.  The  chain  of  Apennines  rose  up  before 
him  in  lines  of  dreamy  loveliness,  like  another  world,  mid 
way  toward  heaven.  A  passing  shower  veiled  the  massive 
summits  toward  Massa  and  Carrara,  but  the  broad  valley 
of  the  Serchio,  mapped  out  in  smallest  details,  lay  serenely 
luminous  below.  Beyond  the  gate  there  was  no  certain 
road.  It  broke  into  little  tracts  and  rocky  paths  terracing 
downward.  Following  these,  streams  ran  bubbling,  spar 
kling  like  gems  as  they  dashed  against  the  stones.  No 
shadows  rested  upon  the  grass,  cooled  by  the  dew  and  car 
peted  by  flowers.  The  woods  danced  in  the  October  sun 
shine.  Painted  butterflies  and  gnats  circled  in  the  warm 
air ;  green  lizards  gamboled  among  the  rocks  that  cut  the 
turf.  Flocks  of  autumn  birds  swooped  round  in  rapid  flight. 


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242  THE   ITALIANS. 

chesa  must  own  this.  Last  night  the  old  life  died  out  as 
the  smoke  from  that  old  tower.  To-day  you  have  waked 
to  a  new  life  with  me." 

Again  Nobili's  arms  stole  round  her ;  again  he  sealed 
the  sacrament  of  love  with  a  fervid  kiss. 

Enrica  trembled  from  head  to  foot — a  scared  look  came 
over  her.  The  rush  of  passionate  joy,  coming  upon  the  ter 
rors  of  the  past  night,  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  No- 
bili  watched  the  change. 

"  Forgive  me,  love,"  he  said,  "  I  will  be  calmer.  Lay 
your  dear  head  against  me.  We  will  sit  together  here — 
under  the  trees." 

"  Yes,"  said  Enrica  in  a  faltering  voice ;  "  I  have  so  much 
to  say."  Then,  suddenly  recalling  the  blessing  of  his  pres 
ence,  a  smile  stole  about  her  bloodless  lips.  She  gave  a 
happy  sigh.  "  Yes,  Nobili — we  can  talk  now  without  fear. 
But  I  can  talk  only  of  you.  I  have  no  thought  but  you.  I 
never  dreamed  of  such  happiness  as  this  !  O  Nobili ! " 
And  she  hid  her  face  in  the  strong  arm  entwined  about 
her. 

"  Speak  to  me,  Enrica ;  I  will  listen  to  you  forever." 

Enrica  clasped  his  hand,  looked  at  it,  sighed,  pressed 
it  between  both  of  hers,  sighed  again,  then  raised  it  to  her 
lips. 

"  Dear  hand,"  she  said,  "  how  it  is  burnt !  But  for  this 
hand,  I  should  be  nothing  now  but  a  little  heap  of  ashes  in 
the  tower.  Nobili" — her  tone  suddenly  changed — "No 
bili,  I  will  try  to  love  life  now  that  you  have  given  it  to 
me."  Her  voice  rang  out  like  music,  and  her  telltale  eyes 
caught  his,  with  a  glance  as  passionate  as  his  own.  "  Count 
Marescotti,"  she  said,  absently,  as  giving  utterance  to  a  pass 
ing  thought — "  Count  Marescotti  told  me,  only  a  week  ago, 
that  I  was  born  to  be  unhappy.  He  said  he  read  it  in  my 
eyes.  I  believed  him  then — not  now — not  now." 

Why,  she  could  not  have  explained,  but,  as  the  count's 


"SAY  NOT  TOO  MUCH."  243 

name  passed  her  lips,  Enrica  was  sorry  she  had  mentioned 
it.  Nobili  noted  this.  He  gave  an  imperceptible  start,  and 
drew  back  a  little  from  her. 

"  Do  you  know  Count  Marescotti  ?  "  Enrica  asked  him, 
timidly. 

"  I  know  him  by  sight,"  was  Nobili's  reply.  "  He  is  a 
mad  fellow — a  republican.  Why  does  he  come  to  Lucca  ?  " 

Enrica  shook  her  head. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered,  still  confused. 

"  Where  did  you  meet  him,  Enrica  ?  " 

She  blushed,  and  dropped  her  eyes.  As  she  gave  him 
no  answer,  he  asked  another  question,  gazing  down  upon 
her  earnestly : 

"  How  did  Count  Marescotti  come  to  know  what  your 
eyes  said  ?  " 

As  Nobili  spoke,  his  voice  sounded  changed.  He  waited 
for  an  answer  with  a  look  as  if  he  had  been  wronged.  En- 
rica's  answer  did  not  come  immediately.  She  felt  fright 
ened. 

"  Oh !  why,"  she  thought,  "  had  she  mentioned  Mare- 
scotti's  name  ?  "  Nobili  was  angry  with  her — she  was  sure 
he  was  angry  with  her. 

"  I  met  him  at  my  aunt's  one  evening,"  she  said  at  last, 
gathering  courage  as  she  stole  her  little  hand  into  one  of 
his,  and  knit  her  fingers  tightly  within  his  own.  "  We 
went  up  into  the  Guinigi  Tower  together.  There  were 
dear  old  Trenta  and  Baldassare  Lena  with  us." 

"  Indeed  ! "  replied  Nobili,  coldly.  "  I  did  not  know 
that  the  Marchesa  Guinigi  ever  received  young  men." 

As  Nobili  said  this  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Enrica's  face. 
What  could  he  read  there  but  assurance  of  the  perfect  in 
nocence  within  ?  Yet  the  name  of  Count  Marescotti  had 
grated  upon  his  ear  like  a  discord  clashing  among  sweet 
sounds.  He  shook  the  feeling  off,  however,  for  the  time. 
Again  he  was  her  gracious  lover. 


244  THE  ITALIANS. 

"  Tell  me,  love,"  he  said,  drawing  Enrica  to  him,  "  did 
you  hear  my  signal  last  night  ? — the  shot  I  fired  below,  out 
of  the  woods  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  heard  a  shot.  Something  told  me  it  must  be 
you.  I  thought  I  should  have  died  when  I  heard  my  aunt 
order  Adamo  to  unloose  those  dreadful  dogs.  How  did 
you  escape  them  ?  " 

"  The  cunning  beasts !  They  were  upon  my  track. 
How  I  did  it  in  the  darkness  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  managed 
to  scramble  down  the  cliff  and  to  reach  the  opposite  moun 
tain.  The  chasm  was  then  between  us.  So  the  dogs  lost 
the  scent  upon  the  rocks,  and  missed  me.  I  left  Lucca  al 
most  as  soon  as  you.  Trenta  told  me  that  the  marchesa  had 
brought  you  here  because  you  would  not  give  me  up.  Dear 
heart,  how  I  grieved  that  I  had  brought  suffering  on  you ! " 

He  seized  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  then  con 
tinued  : 

"  As  long  as  it  was  day,  I  prowled  about  under  the  cliffs 
in  the  shadow  of  the  chasm.  I  watched  the  stars  come 
out.  There  was  one  star  that  shone  brightly  above  the 
tower;  to  me  that  star  was  j'ou,  Enrica.  I  could  have 
knelt  to  it." 

"  Dear  Nobili ! "  murmured  Enrica,  softly. 

"  As  I  waited  there,  I  saw  a  great  red  vapor  gather  over 
the  battlements.  The  alarm-bell  sounded.  I  climbed  up 
through  the  wood,  where  the  rocks  are  lower,  and  watched 
among  the  shrubs.  I  saw  the  marchesa  carried  out  in  Ada- 
mo's  arms.  I  heard  your  name,  dear  love,  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth.  I  looked  around — you  were  not  there. 
I  understood  it  all ;  I  rushed  to  save  you." 

Again  Nobili  wound  his  arms  round  Enrica  and  drew 
her  to  him  with  passionate  ardor.  The  thought  of  Count 
Marescotti  had  faded  out  like  a  bad  dream  at  daylight. 

Enrica's  blue  eyes  dimmed  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  do  not  weep,  Enrica ! "  he  cried.     "  Let  the  past 


"SAY  NOT  TOO  MUCH."  245 

go,  love.  Did  the  marchesa  think  that  bolts  and  bars,  and 
Adamo,  and  watch-dogs,  would  keep  Nobili  from  you  ? " 
He  gave  a  merry  laugh.  "  I  shall  not  leave  Corellia  until 
we  are  affianced.  Fra  Pacifico  knows  it — I  told  him  so 
last  night.  Cavaliere  Trenta  is  expected  to-day  from  Luc 
ca.  Both  will  speak  to  your  aunt.  One  may  have  done  so 
already,  for  what  I  know,  for  Fra  Pacifico  had  left  his  house 
before  I  rose.  He  must  be  here.  Is  this  a  time  to  weep, 
Enrica  ? "  he  asked  her  tenderly.  How  comely  Nobili 
looked !  What  life  and  joy  sparkled  in  his  bright  eyes  1 

"  I  am  very  foolish — I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,"  was 
Enrica's  answer,  spoken  a  little  sadly.  Her  confidence  in 
herself  was  shaken,  since  Count  Marescotti's  name  had 
jarred  between  them.  "  Let  us  walk  a  little  in  the  shade." 

"  Yes.  Lean  on  me,  dearest ;  the  morning  is  delicious. 
But  remember,  Enrica,  I  will  have  smiles — nothing  but 
smiles." 

As  Nobili  bore  her  up  on  his  strong  arm,  pacing  up 
and  down  among  the  flowering  trees  that,  bowing  in  the 
light  breeze,  shed  gaudy  petals  at  their  feet — Nobili  looked 
so  strong,  and  resolute,  and  bold — his  eyes  had  such  a 
power  in  them  as  he  gazed  down  proudly  upon  her — that 
the  tears  which  trembled  upon  Enrica's  eyelids  disappeared. 
Nobili's  strength  came  to  her  as  her  own  strength.  She, 
who  had  been  so  crushed  and  wounded,  brought  so  near  to 
death,  needed  this  to  raise  her  up  to  life.  And  now  it 
came — came  as  she  gazed  at  him. 

Yes,  she  would  live — live  a  new  life  with  him.  And 
Nobili  had  done  it — done  it  unconsciously,  as  the  sun  un 
folds  the  bosom  of  the  rose,  and  from  the  delicate  bud  cre 
ates  the  perfect  flower. 

Something  Nobili  understood  of  what  was  passing  with 
in  her,  but  not  all.  He  had  yet  to  learn  the  treasures  of 
faith  and  love  shut  up  in  the  bosom  of  that  silent  girl — to 
learn  how  much  she  loved  him — only  him.  (A  new  lesson 


246  THE  ITALIANS. 

for  one  who  had  trifled  with  so  many,  and  given  and  taken 
such  facile  oaths !) 

Neither  spoke,  but  wandered  up  and  down  in  vague  de 
light. 

Why  was  it  that  at  this  moment  Nobili's  thoughts 
strayed  to  Lucca,  and  to  Nera  Boccarini  ? — Nera  rose  be 
fore  him,  glowing  and  velvet-eyed,  as  on  that  night  she  had 
so  tempted  him.  He  drove  her  image  from  him.  Nera 
was  dead  to  him.  Dead  ? — Fool ! — And  did  he  think  that 
any  thing  can  die  ?  Do  not  our  very  thoughts  rise  up  and 
haunt  us  in  some  subtile  consequence  of  after-life  ?  Noth 
ing  dies — nothing  is  isolated.  Each  act  of  daily  inter 
course — the  merest  trifle,  as  the  gravest  issue — makes  up 
the  chain  of  life.  Link  by  link  that  chain  draws  on, 
weighted  with  good  or  ill,  and  clings  about  us  to  the  very 
grave. 

Thinking  of  Nera,  Nobili's  color  changed — a  dark  look 
clouded  his  ready  smile.  Enrica  asked,  "What  pains 
you?" 

"  Nothing,  love,  nothing,"  Nobili  answered  vaguely, 
"  only  I  fear  I  am  not  worthy  of  you." 

Enrica  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  Such  a  depth  of  tender 
ness  and  purity  beamed  from  them,  that  Nobili  asked  him 
self  with  shame,  how  he  could  have  forgotten  her  With 
this  blue-eyed  angel  by  his  side  it  seemed  impossible,  and 
yet- 
Pressing  Enrica's  hand  more  tightly,  he  placed  it  fondly 
on  his  own.  "  So  small,  so  true,"  he  murmured,  gazing  at 
it  as  it  lay  on  his  broad  palm. 

"Yes,  Nobili,  true  to  death,"  she  answered,  with  a 
sigh. 

Still  holding  her  hand,  "  Enrica,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  I 
swear  to  love  you  and  no  other,  while  I  live.  God  is  my 
witness ! " 

As  he  lifted  up  his  head  in  the  earnestness  with  which 


"SAY  NOT  TOO  MUCH."  247 

he  spoke,  the  sunshine,  streaming  downward,  shone  full 
upon  his  face. 

Enrica  trembled.  "  Oh !  do  not  say  too  much,"  she 
cried,  gazing  up  at  him  entranced. 

With  that  sun-ray  upon  his  face,  Nobili  seemed  to  her, 
at  that  moment,  more  than  mortal ! 

"  Angel !  "  exclaimed  Count  Nobili,  wrought  up  to  sud 
den  passion,  "  can  you  doubt  me  ?  " 

Before  Eurica  could  reply,  a  snake,  warmed  by  the  hot 
sun,  curled  upward  from  the  terraced  wall  behind  them, 
where  it  had  basked,  and  glided  swiftly  between  them. 
Nobili's  heel  was  on  it ;  in  an  instant  he  had  crushed  its 
head.  But  there  between  them  lay  the  quivering  reptile, 
its  speckled  scales  catching  the  light.  Enrica  shrieked  and 
started  back. 

"  O  God  !  what  an  evil  omen ! "  She  said  no  more, 
only  her  shifting  color  and  uneasy  eyes  told  what  she  felt. 

"An  evil  omen,  love !"  and  Nobili  brushed  away  the 
snake  with  his  foot  into  the  underwood,  and  laughed. 
"  Not  so.  It  is  an  omen  that  I  shall  crush  all  who  would 
part  us.  That  is  how  I  read  it." 

Enrica  shook  her  head.  That  snake  crawling  between 
them  was  the  first  warning  to  her  that  she  was  still  on 
earth.  Till  then  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  Nobili's  pres 
ence  nust  be  like  paradise.  Now  for  a  moment  a  terrible 
doubt  crept  over  her.  Could  happiness  be  sad  ?  It  must 
be  so,  for  now  she  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  sad  or 
happy. 

"  Oh  !  do  not  say  too  much,  dear  Nobili,"  she  repeated 
almost  to  herself,  "  or — "  Her  voice  dropped.  She  looked 
toward  the  spot  where  the  snake  had  fallen,  and  shuddered. 

Nobili  did  not  then  reply,  but,  taking  Enrica  by  the 
hand,  he  led  her  up  a  flight  of  steps  to  a  higher  terrace, 
where  a  cypress  avenue  threw  long  shadows  across  the 
marble  pavement. 


248  THE  ITALIANS. 

•  "  You  arc  mine,"  he  whispered,  "  mine — as  by  a  mira 
cle  ! " 

There  was  such  rapture  in  his  voice  that  heaven  came 
down  into  her  heart,  and  every  doubt  was  stilled. 

At  this  moment  Fra  Pacifico's  towering  figure  appeared 
ascending  a  lower  flight  of  steps  toward  them,  coming  from 
the  house.  He  trod  with  that  firm,  grand  step  churchmen 
have  in  common  with  actors — only  the  stage  upon  which 
each  treads  is  different.  Behind  Fra  Pacifico  was  the 
short,  plump  figure  and  the  white  hat  of  Cavaliere  Trenta 
(a  dwarf  beside  the  priest),  his  rosy  face  rosier  than  ever 
from  the  rapid  drive  from  Lucca.  Trenta's  kind  eyes 
twinkled  under  his  white  eyebrows  as  he  spied  Enrica 
above,  standing  side  by  side  with  Nobili.  How  different 
the  dear  child  looked  from  that  last  time  he  had  seen  her 
at  Lucca ! 

Enrica  flew  down  the  steps  to  meet  him.  She  threw 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  Count  Nobili  followed  her;  he 
shook  hands  with  the  cavaliere  and  Fra  Pacifico. 

"  His  reverence  and  I  thought  we  should  find  you  two 
together,"  said  Cavaliere  Trenta,  with  a  chuckle.  "  Count 
Nobili,  I  wish  you  joy." 

His  voice  faltered  a  little,  and  a  spotless  handkerchief 
was  drawn  out  and  called  into  service.  Nobili  reddened, 
then  bowed  with  formal  courtesy. 

"  It  is  all  come  right,  I  see." — Trenta  gave  a  sly  glance 
from  one  to  the  other,  though  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. — 
"  I  shall  live  to  open  the  marriage-ball  on  the  first  floor  of 
the  palace  yet.  Bagatella  !  I  would  have  tried  to  give  the 
dear  child  to  you  myself,  had  I  known  how  much  she  loved 
you — but  you  have  taken  her.  Well,  well — possession  is 
better  than  gift." 

"  She  gave  herself  to  me,  cavaliere.  Last  night's  work 
only  made  the  gift  public,"  was  Nobili's  reply. 

There  was  a  tone  of  triumph  in  Nobili's  voice  as  he  said 


"SAY  NOT  TOO  MUCH"  249 

this.  He  stooped  and  pressed  his  lips  to  Enrica's  hand. 
Enrica  stood  by  with  downcast  eyes — a  spray  of  pink  ole 
ander  swaying  from  the  terrace-wall  in  the  light  breeze 
above  her  head,  for  background. 

The  old  cavaliere  nodded  his  head,  round  which  the  little 
curls  set  faultlessly  under  his  white  hat. 

"My  dear  Count  Nobili,  permit  me  to  offer  my  advice. 
You  must  settle  this  matter  at  once — at  once,  I  say ; "  and 
Trenta  struck  his  stick  upon  the  marble  balustrade  for 
greater  emphasis. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  put  in  Fra  Pacifico  in  his 
deep  voice.  "  The  impression  made  by  your  courage  last 
night  must  not  be  lost  by  delay.  I  never  saw  an  act  of 
greater  daring.  Had  you  not  come,  I  should  have  tried 
to  save  Enrica,  but  I  am  past  my  prime ;  I  should  have 
failed." 

"  You  cannot  count  on  the  marchesa's  gratitude,"  con 
tinued  Trenta  ;  "  an  excellent  lady,  and  my  oldest  friend, 
but  proud  and  capricious.  You  mnst  take  her  like  the 
wind  when  it  blows — ha  !  ha  !  like  the  wind.  I  am  come 
here  to  help  you  both." 

"  Cavaliere,"  said  Nobili,  turning  toward  him  (his  va 
grant  eyes  had  wandered  off  to  Enrica,  so  charming,  with 
the  pink  oleander  and  its  dark-green  leaves  waving  above 
her  blond  head),  "  do  me  the  favor  to  ask  the  Marchesa 
Guinigi  at  what  hour  she  will  admit  me  to  sign  the  mar 
riage-contract.  I  have  pressing  business  that  calls  me  back 
to  Lucca  to-day." 

"  So  soon,  dear  Nobili  ?  "  a  soft  voice  whispered  at  his 
ear,  "  so  soon  ?  "  And  then  there  was  a  sigh.  Surely  her 
paradise  was  very  brief!  Enrica  had  thought  in  her  sim 
plicity  that,  once  met,  they  two  never  should  part  again, 
but  spend  the  live-long  days  together  side  by  side  among 
the  woods,  lingering  by  flowing  streams ;  or  in  the  rich 
shade  of  purple  vine-bowers ;  or  in  mossy  caves,  shaded 


250  THE  ITALIANS. 

by  tall  ferns,  hid  on  the  mountain-side,  and  let  time  and 
the  world  roll  by.  This  was  the  life  she  dreamed  of.  Could 
any  grief  be  there  ? 

"  Yes,  love,"  Nobili  answered  to  her  question.  "  I 
must  return  to  Lucca  to-night.  I  started  on  the  instant, 
as  the  cavaliere  knows.  Before  I  go,  however,  all  must  be 
settled  about  our  marriage,  and  the  contract  signed.  I  will 
take  no  denial." 

Nobili  spoke  with  the  determination  that  was  in  him. 
Enrica's  heart  gave  a  bound.  "  The  contract !  "  She  had 
never  thought  of  that.  "  The  contract  and  the  marriage  !  " 
— "  Both  close  at  hand  ! — Then  the  life  she  dreamed  of 
must  come  true  in  very  earnest !  " 

The  cavaliere  looked  doubtingly  at  Fra  Pacifico.  Fra 
Pacifico  shrugged  his  big  shoulders,  looked  back  again  at 
Cavaliere  Trenta,  and  smiled  rather  grimly.  There  was 
always  a  sense  of  suppressed  power,  moral  and  physical, 
about  Fra  Pacifico.  In  conversation  he  had  a  way  of  leav 
ing  the  burden  of  small  talk  to  others,  and  of  reserving 
himself  for  special  occasions  ;  but  when  he  spoke  he  must 
be  listened  to. 

"  Quick  work,  my  dear  count,"  was  all  the  priest  said 
to  Nobili  in  answer.  "  Do  you  think  you  can  insure  the 
marchesa's  consent  ?  "  Now  he  addressed  the  cavaliere. 

"  Oh,  my  friend  will  be  reasonable,  no  doubt.  After 
last  night,  she  must  consent."  The  cavaliere  was  always 
ready  to  put  the  best  construction  upon  every  thing.  "  If 
she  raises  any  obstacles,  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  remove 
them." 

"  Consent !  "  cried  Nobili,  fiercely  echoing  back  the 
word,  "  she  must  consent — she  will  be  mad  to  refuse." 

"  Well — well — we  shall  see. — You,  Count  Nobili,  have 
done  all  to  make  it  sure.  The  terms  of  the  contract  (I  have 
heard  of  them  from  Fra  Pacifico)  are  princely."  A  look 
from  Count  Nobili  stopped  Trenta  from  saying  more. 


"SAY  NOT  TOO   MUCH."  251 

"  Now,  Enrica,"  and  the  cavaliere  turned  and  took  her 
arm,  "  come  in  and  give  me  some  breakfast.  An  old  man 
of  eighty  must  eat,  if  he  means  to  dance  at  weddings." 

"  You,  Nobili,  must  come  with  me,"  said  Fra  Pacifico, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  count's  shoulder.  "  We  will  wait 
the  cavaliere's  summons  to  return  here  over  a  bottle  of  the 
marchesa's  best  vintage,  and  a  cutlet  cooked  by  Maria. 
She  is  my  best  cook;  I  have  one  for  every  day  in  the 
week." 

So  they  parted — Trenta  with  Enrica  descending  flight 
after  flight  of  steps,  leading  from  terrace  to  terrace,  down 
to  the  villa  ;  Nobili  mounting  upward  to  the  forest  with 
Fra  Pacifico  toward  Corellia,  to  await  the  marchesa's  an 
swer. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    C  ONTR ACT. 

FRA.  PACIFICO,  with  Adamo  and  Pipa,  had  labored  ever 
since  daybreak  to  arrange  the  rooms  at  the  villa  before 
the  marchesa  rose.  Pipa  had  freely  used  the  broom  and 
many  pails  of  water.  All  the  windows  were  thrown  open, 
and  clouds  of  invisible  incense  from  the  flowers  without 
sweetened  the  fusty  rooms. 

The  villa  had  not  been  inhabited  for  nearly  fifty  years. 
It  was  scantily  provided  with  furniture,  but  there  were 
chairs  and  tables  and  beds,  and  all  the  rough  necessaries 
of  life.  To  make  all  straight,  whole  generations  of  beetles 
had  been  swept  away ;  and  patriarchal  spiders,  which  clung 
tenaciously  to  the  damp  spots  on  the  walls.  A  scorpion 
or  two  had  been  found,  which,  firmly  resisting  to  quit  the 
chinks  where  they  had  grown  and  multiplied,  had  died  by 
decapitation.  Fra  Pacifico  would  not  have  owned  it,  but 
he  had  discovered  and  killed  a  nest  of  black  adders  that  lay 
concealed,  curled  up  in  a  curtain. 

He  had  with  his  own  hands,  in  the  early  morning,  care 
fully  fashioned  the  spacious  sala  on  the  ground-floor  to  the 
marchesa's  liking.  A  huge  sofa,  with  a  faded  amber  cover, 
had  been  drawn  out  of  a  recess,  and  so  placed  that  the 
light  should  fall  at  her  back. — She  objected  to  the  sunshine, 
with  true  Italian  perverseness.  Some  arm-chairs,  once 


THE  CONTRACT.  253 

gilt,  and  still  bearing  a  coronet,  were  placed  in  a  semicircle 
opposite.  The  windows  of  the  sala,  and  two  glass  doors  of 
the  same  size  and  make,  looked  east  and  west ;  toward  the 
terraces  and  the  garden  on  one  side,  and  over  the  cliffs  and 
the  chasm  to  the  opposite  mountains  on  the  other.  The 
walls  were  broken  by  doors  of  varnished  pine-wood.  These 
doors  led,  on  the  right,  to  the  chapel,  Enrica's  bedroom, 
and  many  empty  apartments  ;  on  the  left,  to  the  mar- 
chesa's  suite  of  rooms,  the  offices,  and  the  stone  corridor 
which  communicated  with  the  now  ruined  tower.  High 
up  on  the  walls  of  the  sala,  two  large  and  roughly-painted 
frescoes  decorated  the  empty  spaces.  A  Dutch  seaport  on 
one  side,  with  sloping  roofs  and  tall  gables,  bordering  a 
broad  river,  upon  which  ships  sailed  vaguely  away  into  a 
yellow  haze.  (Not  more  vaguely  sailing,  perhaps,  than 
many  human  ships,  with  life-sails  set  to  catch  the  wind  of 
fortune — ships  which  never  make  more  way  than  these 
painted  emblems  !)  Opposite,  a  hunting-party  of  the  olden 
time  picnicked  in  a  forest-glade ;  a  brown  and  red  palace 
in  the  background,  in  front  lords  and  ladies  lounging  on 
the  grass — bundles  of  satin,  velvet,  powder,  ribbons,  feath 
ers,  shoulder-knots,  ruffles,  long-tailed  coats,  and  trains. 

A  door  to  the  left  opened.  There  was  a  sound  of 
voices  talking. 

"My  honored  marchesa,"  the  cavaliere  was  heard  to 
say  in  his  most  dulcet  tones,  "  in  the  state  of  your  affairs, 
you  cannot  refuse.  Why  then  delay?  The  day  is  pass 
ing  by ;  Count  Nobili  is  impatient.  Let  me  implore  you  to 
lose  no  more  time." 

While  he  was  speaking  the  marchesa  entered  the  sala, 
passing  close  under  the  fresco  of  the  vaguely-sailing  ships 
upon  the  wall. — Can  the  marchesa  tell  whither  she  is  drift 
ing  more  than  these? — She  glanced  round  approvingly, 
then  seated  herself  upon  the  sofa.  Trenta  obsequiously 
placed  a  footstool  at  her  feet,  a  cushion  at  her  back.  Even 


254  THE   ITALIANS. 

the  tempered  light,  whioh  had  been  carefully  prepared  for 
her  by  closing  the  outer  wooden  shutters,  could  not  con 
ceal  how  sallow  and  worn  she  looked,  nor  the  black  circles 
that  had  gathered  round  her  eyes.  Her  dark  dress  hucg 
about  her  as  if  she  had  suddenly  grown  thin ;  her  white 
hands  fell  listlessly  at  her  side.  The  marchesa  knew  that 
she  must  consent  to  Count  Nobili's  conditions.  She  knew 
she  must  consent  this  very  day.  But  such  a  struggle  as 
this  knowledge  cost  her,  coming  so  close  upon  the  agita 
tion  of  the  previous  night,  was  nore  than  even  her  iron 
nerves  could  bear.  As  she  leaned  back  upon  the  sofa, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  as  was  her  habit,  she  felt 
she  could  not  frame  the  words  with  which  to  answer  the 
cavaliere,  were  it  to  save  her  life. 

As  for  the  cavaliere,  who  had  seated  himself  opposite,  his 
plump  little  person  was  so  engulfed  in  an  arm-chair,  that 
nothing  but  his  snowy  head  was  visible.  This  he  waved 
up  and  down  reflectively,  rattled  his  stick  upon  the  floor, 
and  glanced  indignantly  from  time  to  time  at  the  marchesa. 
Why  would  she  not  answer  him  ? 

Meanwhile  a  little  color  had  risen  upon  her  cheeks. 
She  forced  herself  to  sit  erect,  arranged  the  folds  of  her 
dark  dress,  then,  in  a  kind  of  stately  silence,  seemed  to 
lend  herself  to  listen  to  what  Trenta  might  have  to  urge, 
as  though  it  concerned  her  as  little  as  that  rose-leaf  which 
comes  floating  in  from  the  open  door  and  drops  at  her 
feet. 

"  Well,  marchesa,  well — what  is  your  answer  ?  "  asked 
Trenta,  much  nettled  at  her  assumed  indifference.  "  Re 
member  that  Count  Nobili  and  Fra  Pacifico  have  been 
waiting  for  some  hours." 

"Let  Nobili  wait,"  answered  the  marchesa,  a  sudden 
glare  darting  into  her  dark  eyes  ;  "  he  is  born  to  wait  for 
such  as  I." 

"  Still " — Trenta   was   both   tired  and  angry,  but   he 


THE   CONTRACT  255 

dared  not  show  it ;  only  he  rattled  his  stick  louder  on  the 
floor,  and  from  time  to  time  aimed  a  savage  blow  with  it 
against  the  carved  legs  of  a  neighboring  table — "still, 
why  do  the  thing  ungraciously?  The  count's  offers  are 
magnificent.  Surely  in  the  face  of  absolute  ruin — Fra 
Pacific©  assures  me — " 

"Let  Fra  Pacifico  rnind  his  own  business,"  was  the 
marchesa's  answer. 

"  Nobili  saved  Enrica's  life  last  night ;  that  cannot  be 
denied." 

"Yes — last  night,  last  night;  and  I  am  to  be  forced 
and  fettered  because  I  set  myself  on  fire !  I  wish  I  had 
perished,  and  Enrica  too  ! " 

A  gesture  of  horror  from  the  cavaliere  recalled  the  mar 
ch  esa  to  a  sense  of  what  she  had  uttered. 

"  And  do  you  deem  it  nothing,  Cesare  Trenta,  after  a 
life  spent  in  building  up  the  ancient  name  I  bear,  that  I 
should  be  brought  to  sign  a  marriage-contract  with  a  ped 
dler's  son  ?  "  She  trembled  with  passion. 

"  Yet  it  must  be  done,"  answered  Trenta. 

"  Must  be  done  !  Must  be  done !  I  would  rather  die  ! 
Mark  my  words,  Cesare.  No  good  will  come  of  this  mar 
riage.  That  young  man  is  weak  and  dissolute.  He  is  mad 
with  wealth,  and  the  vulgar  influence  that  comes  with 
wealth.  As  a  man,  he  is  unworthy  of  my  niece,  who,  I 
must  confess,  has  the  temper  of  an  angel." 

"  I  believe  that  you  are  wrong,  marchesa ;  Count  Nobili 
is  much  beloved  in  Lucca.  Fra  Pacifico  has  known  him 
from  boyhood.  He  praises  him  greatly.  I  also  like  him." 

"  Like  him ! — Yes,  Cesare,  you  are  such  an  easy  fool 
you  like  every  one.  First  Marescotti,  then  Nobili.  Mare- 
scotti  was  a  gentleman,  but  this  fellow — "  She  left  the 
sentence  incomplete.  "  Remember  my  words — you  are 
deceived  in  him." 

"  At  all  events,"  retorted  the  cavaliere,  "  it  is  too  late 


256  THE   ITALIANS. 

to  discuss  these  matters  now.  Time  presses.  Enrica  loves 
him.  He  insists  on  marrying  her.  You  have  no  money, 
and  cannot  give  her  a  portion.  My  respected  marchesa,  I 
have  often  ventured  to  represent  to  you  what  those  law 
suits  would  entail  1  Per  Bacco  !  There  must  be  an  end 
of  all  things — may  I  call  them  in  ?  " 

The  poor  old  chamberlain  was  completely  exhausted. 
He  had  spent  four  hours  in  reasoning  with  his  friend.  The 
marchesa  turned  her  head  away  and  shuddered  ;  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  speak  the  word  of  bidding.  The 
cavaliere  accepted  this  silence  for  consent.  He  struggled 
out  of  the  ponderous  arm-chair,  and  went  out  into  the  gar 
den.  There  (leaning  over  the  balustrade  of  the  lowest  ter 
race,  under  the  willful  branchesof  a  big  nonia-tree,  weighted 
with  fronds  of  scarlet  trumpet-flowers,  that  hung  out  lazily 
from  the  wall,  to  which  the  stem  was  nailed)  Cavaliere 
Trenta  found  Count  Nobili  and  Fra  Pacifico  awaiting  the 
marchesa's  summons.  Behind  them,  at  a  respectful  dis 
tance,  stood  Ser  Giacomo,  the  notary  from  Corellia.  Stream 
lets  pure  as  crystal  ran  bubbling  down  beside  them  in  mar 
ble  runnels  ;  statues  of  gods  and  goddesses  balanced  each 
other,  on  pedestals,  at  the  angles  where  the  steps  turned. 
In  front,  on  the  gravel,  a  pair  of  peacocks  strutted,  spread 
ing  their  gaudy  tails  in  the  sunshine. 

As  the  four  men  entered  the  sala,  they  seemed  to  bring 
the  evening  shadows  with  them.  These  suddenly  slanted 
across  the  floor  like  pointed  arrows,  darkening  the  places 
where  the  sun  had  shone.  Was  it  fancy,  or  did  the  spar 
kling  fountain  at  the  door,  as  it  fell  backward  into  the 
marble  basin,  murmur  with  a  sound  like  human  sighs  ? 

Count  Nobili  walked  first.  He  was  grave  and  pale. 
Having  made  a  formal  obeisance  to  the  marchesa,  his  quick 
eye  traveled  round  in  search  of  Enrica.  Not  finding  her, 
it  settled  again  upon  her  aunt.  As  Nobili  entered,  she 
raised  her  smooth,  snake-like  head,  and  met  his  gaze  in 


THE   CONTRACT.  257 

silence.  She  had  scarcely  bowed,  in  recognition  of  his 
salute.  Now,  with  the  slightest  possible  inclination  of  her 
head,  she  signed  to  him  to  take  his  place  on  one  of  the 
chairs  before  her. 

Fra  Pacifico,  his  full,  broad  face  perfectly  unmoved,  and 
Cavaliere  Trenta,  who  watched  the  scene  nervously  with 
troubled,  twinkling  eyes,  placed  themselves  on  either  side 
of  Count  Nobili.  Ser  Giacomo  had  already  slipped  round 
behind  the  sofa,  and  seated  himself  at  a  table  placed 
against  the  wall,  the  marriage-contract  spread  out  before 
him.  There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Then  Count  Nobili 
rose,  and,  in  that  sweet-toned  voice  which  had  fallen  like 
a  charm  on  many  a  woman's  ear,  addressed  the  marchesa. 

"  Marchesa  Guinigi,  hereditary  Governess  of  Lucca, 
and  Countess  of  the  Garfagnana,  I  am  come  to  ask  in  mar 
riage  the  hand  of  your  niece,  Enrica  Guinigi.  I  desire  no 
portion  with  her.  The  lady  herself  is  a  portion  more  than 
enough  for  me." 

As  Nobili  ceased  speaking,  the  ruddy  color  shot  across 
his  brow  and  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  glistened.  His  generous 
nature  spoke  in  those  few  words. 

"  Count  Nobili,"  replied  the  marchesa,  carefully  avoid 
ing  his  eye,  which  eagerly  sought  hers — "  am  I  correct  in 
addressing  you  as  Count  Nobili? — Pardon  me  if  I  am 
wrong."  Here  she  paused,  and  affected  to  hesitate.  "  Do 
you  bear  any  other  name  ?  I  am  really  quite  ignorant  of 
the  new  titles." 

This  question  was  asked  with  outward  courtesy,  but 
there  was  such  a  twang  of  scorn  in  the  marchesa's  tone, 
such  an  expression  of  contempt  upon  her  lip,  that  the  old 
chamberlain  trembled  on  his  chair.  Even  at  this  last  mo 
ment  it  was  possible  that  her  infernal  pride  might  scatter 
every  thing  to  the  winds. 

"  Call  me  Mario  Nobili — that  will  do,"  answered  the 
.count,  reddening  to  the  roots  of  his  chestnut  curls. 


258  THE   ITALIANS. 

The  marchesa  inclined  her  head,  and  smiled  a  sarcastic 
smile,  as  if  rejoicing  to  acquaint  herself  with  a  fact  before 
unknown.  Then  she  resumed : 

"  Mario  Nobili — you  saved  my  niece's  life  last  night. 
I  am  advised  that  I  cannot  refuse  you  her  hand  in  mar 
riage,  although — " 

Such  a  black  frown  clouded  Nobili's  countenance  under 
the  sting  of  her  covert  insults  that  Trenta  hastily  inter 
posed. 

"Permit  me  to  remind  you,  Marchesa  Guinigi,  that, 
subject  to  your  approval,  the  conditions  of  the  marriage 
have  been  already  arranged  by  me  and  Fra  PaciSco,  before 
you  consented  to  meet  Count  Nobili.  The  present  inter 
view  is  purely  formal.  We  are  met  in  order  to  sign  the 
marriage-contract.  The  notary,  I  see,  is  ready.  The  con 
tract  lies  before  him.  May  I  be  permitted  to  call  in  the 
lady?" 

"One  moment,  Cavaliere  Trenta,"  interposed  Nobili, 
who  was  still  standing,  holding  up  his  hand  to  stop  him — 
"  one  moment.  I  must  request  permission  to  repeat  my 
self  the  terms  of  the  contract  to  the  Marchesa  Guinigi  be 
fore  I  presume  to  receive  the  honor  of  her  assent." 

It  was  now  the  marchesa's  turn  to  be  discomfited.  This 
was  the  avowal  of  an  open  bargain  between  Count  Nobili 
and  herself.  A  common  exchange  of  value  for  value ;  such 
as  low  creatures  barter  for  with  each  other  in  the  exchange. 
She  felt  this,  and  hated  Nobili  more  keenly  for  having  had 
the  wit  to  wound  her. 

"I  bind  myself,  immediately  on  the  signing  of  the  con 
tract,  to  discharge  every  mortgage,  debt,  and  incumbrance 
on  these  feudal  lands  of  Corellia  in  the  Garfagnana ;  also 
any  debts  in  and  about  the  Guinigi  Palace  and  lands,  within 
and  without  the  walls  of  Lucca.  I  take  upon  myself  every 
incumbrance,"  Nobili  repeated  emphatically,  raising  his 
voice.  "  My  purpose  is  fully  noted  in  that  contract,  hastily 


THE   CONTRACT.  259 

drawn  up  at  my  desire.  I  also  bestow  on  the  marchesa's 
niece  the  Guinigi  Palace  I  bought  at  Lucca — to  the  mar 
chesa's  niece,  Enrica  Guinigi,  and  her  heirs  forever;  also  a 
dowry  of  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year,  should  she  survive 
me." 

"What  is  it  about  gold  that  invests  its  possessor  with 
such  instant  power  ?  Is  knowledge  power  ?  —  or  does 
gold  weigh  more  than  brains  ?  I  think  so.  Gold-pieces 
and  Genius  weighed  in  scales  would  send  poor  Genius 
kicking  ! 

From  the  moment  Count  Nobili  had  made  apparent  the 
wealth  which  he  possessed,  he  was  master  of  the  situation. 
The  marchesa's  quick  perception  told  her  so.  While  he 
was  accepting  all  her  debts,  with  the  superb  indifference 
of  a  millionaire,  she  grew  cold  all  over. 

"  Tell  the  notary,"  she  said,  endeavoring  to  maintain  her 
usual  haughty  manner,  "  to  put  down  that,  at  my  death,  I 
bequeath  to  my  niece  all  of  which  I  die  possessed — the 
palace  at  Lucca,  and  the  heirlooms,  plate,  jewels,  armor, 
and  the  picture  of  my  great  ancestor  Castruccio  Castracani, 
to  be  kept  hanging  in  the  place  where  it  now  is,  opposite 
the  seigneurial  throne  in  the  presence-chamber." 

Here  she  paused.  The  hasty  scratch  of  Ser  Giacomo's 
pen  was  heard  upon  the  parchment.  Spite  of  her  efforts 
to  control  her  feelings,  an  ashy  pallor  spread  over  the  mar 
chesa's  face.  She  grasped  her  two  hands  together  so 
tightly  that  the  finger-tips  grew  crimson ;  a  nervous  quiver 
shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  Cavaliere  Trenta,  who  read 
the  marchesa  like  a  book,  watched  her  in  perfect  agony. 
What  was  going  to  happen  ?  Would  she  faint  ? 

"  I  also  bequeath,"  continued  the  marchesa,  rising  from 
her  seat  with  solemn  action,  and  speaking  in  a  low,  hushed 
voice,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor — "  I  also  bequeath  the 
great  Guinigi  name  and  our  ancestral  honors  to  my  niece 
— to  bear  them  after  my  death,  together  with  her  husband, 


260  THE  ITALIANS. 

then  to  pass  to  her  eldest  child.     And  may  that  great  name 
be  honored  ! " 

The  marchesa  reseated  herself,  raised  her  thin  white 
hands,  and  threw  up  her  eyes  to  heaven.  The  sacrifice 
was  made ! 

"  May  I  call  in  the  lady  ?  "  again  asked  the  cavaliere, 
addressing  no  one  in  particular. 

"  I  will  fetch  her  in,"  replied  Fra  Pacifico,  rising  from 
his  chair.  "  She  is  my  spiritual  daughter." 

No  one  moved  while  Fra  Pacifico  was  absent.  Ser 
Giacomo,  the  notary,  dressed  in  his  Sunday  suit  of  black, 
remained,  pen  in  hand,  staring  at  the  wall.  Never  in  his 
humble  life  had  he  formed  one  of  such  a  distinguished 
company.  All  his  life  Ser  Giacomo  had  heard  of  the  Mar 
chesa  Guinigi  as  a  most  awful  lady.  If  Fra  Pacifico  had 
not  caught  him  within  his  little  office  near  the  caf&}  rather 
than  have  faced  her,  Ser  Giacomo  would  have  run  away. 

The  door  opened,  and  Enrica  stood  upon  the  threshold. 
•There  was  an  air  of  innocent  triumph  about  her.  She  had 
bound  a  blue  ribbon  in  her  golden  curls,  and  placed  a  rose 
in  the  band  that  encircled  her  slight  waist.  Enrica  was, 
in  truth,  but  a  common  mortal,  but  she  looked  so  fresh,  and 
bright,  and  young,  with  such  tender,  trusting  eyes — there 
was  such  an  aureole  of  purity  about  her,  she  might  have 
passed  for  a  virgin  saint. 

As  he  caught  sight  of  Enrica,  the  moody  expression 
on  Count  Nobili's  face  changed,  and  broke  into  a  smile.  In 
her  presence  he  forgot  the  marchesa.  Was  not  such  a 
prize  worthy  of  any  battle  ?  "What  did  it  signify  to  him  if 
Eurica  were  called  Guinigi  ?  And  as  to  those  tumble 
down  palaces  and  heirlooms — what  of  them  ?  He  could 
buy  scores  of  old  palaces  any  day  if  he  chose.  Quickly  he 
stepped  forward  to  meet  her  as  she  entered.  Fra  Pacifico 
rose,  and  with  great  solemnity  signed  them  both  with  a 
thrice-repeated  cross,  then  he  placed  Enrica's  hand  in  No- 


THE  CONTRACT.  2G1 

bill's.  The  count  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it  fer 
vently. 

"  My  Enrica,"  he  whispered,  "  this  is  a  glorious  day  ! " 

"  Oh,  it  is  heavenly  ! "  she  answered  back,  softly. 

The  marchesa's  white  face  darkened  as  she  looked  at 
Enrica.  How  dared  Enrica  be  so  happy  ?  But  she  re 
pressed  the  reproaches  that  rose  to  her  lips,  though  her 
heart  swelled  to  bursting,  and  the  veins  in  her  forehead 
distended  with  rage. 

"  Can  Enrica  be  of  my  flesh  and  blood  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
marchesa  in  a  low  voice  to  the  cavaliere  who  now  stood  at 
her  side.  "  Fool !  she  believes  in  her  lover  1  It  is  a  hor 
rible  sacrifice  !  Mark  my  words — a  horrible  sacrifice ! " 

Nobili  and  Enrica  had  taken  their  places  behind  the 
notary.  The  slanting  shadows  from  the  open  door  struck 
upon  them  with  deeper  gloom,  and  the  low  murmur  of  the 
fountain  seemed  now  to  form  itself  into  a  moan. 

"  Do  I  sign  here  ?  "  asked  Count  Nobili. 

Ser  Giacomo  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

"  Yes,  excellency,  you  sign  here,"  he  stammered,  point 
ing  to  the  precise  spot ;  but  Ser  Giacomo  looked  so  terri 
fied  that  Nobili,  forgetting  where  he  was,  laughed  out  loud 
and  turned  to  Enrica,  who  laughed  also. 

"  Stop  that  unseemly  mirth,"  called  out  the  marchesa 
from  the  sofa;  "it  is  most  indecent.  Let  the  act  that 
buries  a  great  name  at  least  be  conducted  with  decorum." 

"  That  great  name  shall  not  die,"  spoke  the  deep  voice 
of  Fra  Pacifico  from  the  background ;  "  I  call  a  blessing 
upon  it,  and  upon  the  present  act.  The  name  shall  live. 
When  we  are  dead  and  rotting  in  our  graves,  a  race  shall 
rise  from  them  " — and  he  pointed  to  Nobili  and  Enrica — 
"  that  shall  recall  the  great  legends  of  the  past  among  the 
citizens  of  Lucca." 

Fearful  of  what  the  marchesa  might  be  moved  to  reply 
(even  the  marchesa,  however,  had  a  certain  dread  of  Fra 


262  THE   ITALIANS. 

Pacifico  when  he  assumed  the  dignity  of  his  priestly  office), 
Trenta  hurried  forward  and  offered  his  arm  to  lead  her  to 
the  table.  She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  cast  her  eyes 
round  at  the  group  of  happy  faces  about  her ;  all  happy 
save  the  poor  notary,  on  whose  forehead  the  big  drops  of 
sweat  were  standing. 

"  Come,  my  daughter,"  said  Fra  Pacifico,  advancing, 
"  fear  not  to  sign  the  marriage-contract.  Think  of  the 
blessings  it  will  bring  to  hundreds  of  miserable  peasants, 
who  are  suffering  from  your  want  of  means  to  help  them  !  " 

"  Fra  Pacifico,"  exclaimed  the  marchesa,  scarcely  able 
to  control  herself,  "  I  respect  your  office,  but  this  is  still 
my  house,  and  I  order  you  to  be  silent.  Where  am  I  to 
sign  ?  " — she  addressed  herself  to  Ser  Giacomo. 

"  Here,  inadame,"  answered  the  almost  inaudible  voice 
of  the  notary. 

The  marchesa  took  the  pen,  and  in  a  large,  firm  hand 
wrote  her  full  name  and  titles.  She  took  a  malicious  pleas 
ure  in  spreading  them  out  over  the  page. 

Enrica  signed  her  name,  in  delicate  little  letters,  after 
her  aunt's.  Count  Nobili  had  already  affixed  his  signature. 
Cavaliere  Trenta  and  the  priest  were  the  witnesses. 

"  There  is  one  request  I  would  make,  marchesa,"  Nobili 
said,  addressing  her.  "I  shall  await  in  Lucca  the  exact 
day  you  may  please  to  name  ;  but,  madame  " — and  with  a 
lover's  ardor  strong  within  him,  he  advanced  nearer  to 
where  the  marchesa  stood,  and  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
touch  her — "  I  beg  you  not  to  keep  me  waiting  long." 

The  marchesa  drew  back,  and  contemplated  him  with 
a  haughty  stare.  His  manner  and  his  request  were  both 
alike  offensive  to  her.  She  would  have  Count  Nobili  to  un 
derstand  that  she  would  admit  no  shadow  of  familiarity ; 
that  her  will  had  been  forced,  but  that  in  all  else  she  re 
garded  him  with  the  same  animosity  as  before. 

Nobili  had  understood  her  action  and   her  meaning. 


THE   CONTRACT.  2G3 

"  Devil ! "  he  muttered  between  his  clinched  teeth.  He 
hated  himself  for  having  been  betrayed  into  the  smallest 
warmth.  With  a  flashing  eye  he  turned  from  the  marchesa 
to  Enrica,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  My  only  love,  this  is 
more  than  I  can  bear  !  " 

Enrica  had  heard  nothing.  She  had  been  lost  in  happy 
thoughts.  In  her  mind  a  vision  was  passing.  She  was  in 
the  close  street  of  San  Simone,  within  its  deep  shadows 
that  fell  so  early  in  the  afternoon.  Before  her  stood  the 
two  grim  palaces,  the  cavernous  doorways  and  the  sculp 
tured  arms  of  the  Guinigi  displayed  on  both  :  one,  her  old 
home  ;  the  other,  that  was  to  be  her  home.  She  saw  her 
self  go  in  here,  cross  the  pillared  court  and  mount  upward. 
It  was  neither  day  nor  night,  but  all  shone  with  crystal 
brightness.  Then  Nobili's  voice  came  to  her,  and  she 
roused  herself. 

"  My  love,"  he  repeated,  "  I  must  go — I  must  go  !  I 
cannot  trust  myself  a  moment  longer  with — " 

What  he  had  on  his  lips  need  not  be  written.  "  That 
lady,"  he  added,  hastily  correcting  himself,  and  he  pointed 
to  the  marchesa,  who,  led  by  the  cavaliere,  had  reseated 
herself  upon  the  sofa,  looking  defiance  at  everybody. 

"  I  have  borne  it  all  for  your  sake,  Enrica."  As  Nobili 
spoke,  he  led  her  aside  to  one  of  the  windows.  "  Now, 
good-by,"  and  his  eyes  gathered  upon  her  with  passionate 
fondness  ;  "  think  of  me  day  and  night." 

Enrica  had  not  uttered  a  single  word  since  she  first  en 
tered,  except  to  Nobili.  When  he  spoke  of  parting,  her 
head  dropped  on  her  breast.  A  dread — a  horror  came  sud 
denly  upon  her.  "  O  Nobili,  why  must  we  part  ?  " 

"  Scarcely  to  part,"  he  answered,  pressing  her  hand — 
"  only  for  a  few  days ;  then  always  to  be  together." 

Enrica  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his,  but  he  held 
it  firmly.  Then  she  turned  away  her  head,  and  big  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  When  at  last  Nobili  tore  himself 


264  THE   ITALIANS. 

from  her,  Enrica  followed  him  to  the  door,  and,  regardless  of 
her  aunt's  furious  glances,  she  kissed  her  hand,  and  waved 
it  after  him.  There  was  a  world  of  love  in  the  action. 

Spite  of  his  indignation,  Count  Nobili  did  not  fail  duly 
to  make  his  salutation  to  the  marchesa. 

The  cavaliere  and  Fra  Pacifico  followed  him  out.  Twi 
light  now  darkened  the  garden.  The  fragrance  of  the  flow 
ers  was  oppressive  in  the  still  air.  A  star  or  two  had  come 
out,  and  twinkled  faintly  on  the  broad  expanse  of  deep-blue 
sky.  The  fountain  murmured  hollow  in  the  silence  of  com 
ing  night. 

"  Good-bj*,"  said  Cavaliere  Trenta  to  Nobili,  in  his  thin 
voice.  "  I  deeply  regret  the  marchesa's  rudeness.  She  is 
unhinged — quite  unhinged ;  but  her  heart  is  excellent,  be 
lieve  me,  most  excellent." 

"  Do  not  talk  of  the  marchesa,"  exclaimed  Nobili,  as  he 
rapidly  ascended  flight  after  flight  of  the  terraces.  "  Let 
me  forget  her,  or  I  shall  never  return  to  Corellia.  Dio  Sa- 
grato !  "  and  Nobili  clinched  his  fist.  "  The  marchesa  is 
the  most  cursed  thing  God  ever  created  !  " 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    CLUB  AT   LUCCA. 

THE  piazza  at  Lucca  is  surrounded  by  four  avenues  of 
plane-trees.  In  the  centre  stands  the  colossal  statue  of  a 
Bourbon  with  disheveled  hair,  a  cornucopia  at  her  feet. 
Facing  the  west  is  the  ducal  palace,  a  spacious  modern 
building-,  in  which  the  sovereigns  of  Lucca  kept  a  splendid 
court.  Here  Cesare  Trenta  had  flourished.  Opposite  the 
palace  is  the  Hotel  of  the  Universe,  where,  as  we  know, 
Count  Marescotti  lodged  at  No.  4,  on  the  second  story. 
Midway  in  the  piazza  a  deep  and  narrow  street  dives  into 
the  body  of  the  city — a  street  of  many  colors,  with  houses 
red,  gray,  brown,  and  tawny,  mellowed  and  tempered  by 
the  hand  of  Time  into  rich  tints  that  melt  into  warm 
shadows.  In  the  background  rise  domes,  and  towers,  and 
mediaeval  church-fronts,  galleried  and  fretted  with  arches, 
pillars,  and  statues.  Here  a  golden  mosaic  blazes  in  the 
sun,  yonder  a  brazen  San  Michele  with  outstretched  arms 
rises  against  the  sky;  and,  scattered  up  and  down,  many  a 
grand  old  palace-roof  uprears  its  venerable  front,  with  open 
pillared  belvedere,  adorned  with  ancient  frescoes.  A  dull, 
sleepy  old  city,  Lucca,  but  full  of  beauty ! 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  piazza,  behind  the  plane- 
trees,  stand  two  separate  buildings,  of  no  particular  preten 
sion,  other  than  that  both  are  of  marble.  One  is  the  the- 
12 


262  THE  ITALIANS. 

Pacifico  when  he  assumed  the  dignity  of  his  priestly  office), 
Trenta  hurried  forward  and  offered  his  arm  to  lead  her  to 
the  table.  She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  cast  her  eyes 
round  at  the  group  of  happy  faces  about  her ;  all  happy 
save  the  poor  notary,  on  whose  forehead  the  big  drops  of 
sweat  were  standing. 

"  Come,  my  daughter,"  said  Fra  Pacifico,  advancing, 
"  fear  not  to  sign  the  marriage-contract.  Think  of  the 
blessings  it  will  bring  to  hundreds  of  miserable  peasants, 
who  are  suffering  from  your  want  of  means  to  help  them  !  " 

"  Fra  Pacifico,"  exclaimed  the  marchesa,  scarcely  able 
to  control  herself,  "  I  respect  your  office,  but  this  is  still 
my  house,  and  I  order  you  to  be  silent.  Where  am  I  to 
sign  ?  " — she  addressed  herself  to  Ser  Giacomo. 

"  Here,  madame,"  answered  the  almost  inaudible  voice 
of  the  notary. 

The  marchesa  took  the  pen,  and  in  a  large,  firm  hand 
wrote  her  full  name  and  titles.  She  took  a  malicious  pleas 
ure  in  spreading  them  out  over  the  page. 

Enrica  signed  her  name,  in  delicate  little  letters,  after 
her  aunt's.  Count  Nobili  had  already  affixed  his  signature. 
Cavaliere  Trenta  and  the  priest  were  the  witnesses. 

"  There  is  one  request  I  would  make,  marchesa,"  Nobili 
said,  addressing  her.  "I  shall  await  in  Lucca  the  exact 
day  you  may  please  to  name  ;  but,  madame  " — and  with  a 
lover's  ardor  strong  within  him,  he  advanced  nearer  to 
where  the  marchesa  stood,  and  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
touch  her — "  I  beg  you  not  to  keep  me  waiting  long." 

The  marchesa  drew  back,  and  contemplated  him  with 
a  haughty  stare.  His  manner  and  his  request  were  both 
alike  offensive  to  her.  She  would  have  Count  Nobili  to  un 
derstand  that  she  would  admit  no  shadow  of  familiarity ; 
that  her  will  had  been  forced,  but  that  in  all  else  she  re 
garded  him  with  the  same  animosity  as  before. 

Nobili  had  understood  her  action  and   her  meaning. 


THE  CONTRACT.  2G3 

"  Devil ! "  he  muttered  between  his  clinched  teeth.  He 
hated  himself  for  having  been  betrayed  into  the  smallest 
warmth.  With  a  flashing  eye  he  turned  from  the  marchesa 
to  Enrica,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  My  only  love,  this  is 
more  than  I  can  bear  ! " 

Enrica  had  heard  nothing.  She  had  been  lost  in  happy 
thoughts.  In  her  mind  a  vision  was  passing.  She  was  in 
the  close  street  of  San  Simone,  within  its  deep  shadows 
that  fell  so  early  in  the  afternoon.  Before  her  stood  the 
two  grim  palaces,  the  cavernous  doorways  and  the  sculp 
tured  arms  of  the  Guinigi  displayed  on  both  :  one,  her  old 
home  ;  the  other,  that  was  to  be  her  home.  She  saw  her 
self  go  in  here,  cross  the  pillared  court  and  mount  upward. 
It  was  neither  day  nor  night,  but  all  shone  with  crystal 
brightness.  Then  Nobili's  voice  came  to  her,  and  she 
roused  herself. 

"  My  love,"  he  repeated,  "  I  must  go — I  must  go  !  I 
cannot  trust  myself  a  moment  longer  with — " 

What  he  had  on  his  lips  need  not  be  written.  "  That 
lady,"  he  added,  hastily  correcting  himself,  and  he  pointed 
to  the  marchesa,  who,  led  by  the  cavaliere,  had  reseated 
herself  upon  the  sofa,  looking  defiance  at  everybody. 

"  I  have  borne  it  all  for  your  sake,  Enrica."  As  Nobili 
spoke,  he  led  her  aside  to  one  of  the  windows.  "  Now, 
good-by,"  and  his  eyes  gathered  upon  her  with  passionate 
fondness ;  "  think  of  me  day  and  night." 

Enrica  had  not  uttered  a  single  word  since  she  first  en 
tered,  except  to  Nobili.  When  he  spoke  of  parting,  her 
head  dropped  on  her  breast.  A  dread — a  horror  came  sud 
denly  upon  her.  "  O  Nobili,  why  must  we  part  ?  " 

"  Scarcely  to  part,"  he  answered,  pressing  her  hand — 
"  only  for  a  few  days ;  then  always  to  be  together." 

Enrica  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his,  but  he  held 
it  firmly.  Then  she  turned  away  her  head,  and  big  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  When  at  last  Nobili  tore  himself 


262  THE   ITALIANS. 

Pacifico  when  he  assumed  the  dignity  of  his  priestly  office), 
Trenta  hurried  forward  and  offered  his  arm  to  lead  her  to 
the  table.  She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  cast  her  eyes 
round  at  the  group  of  happy  faces  about  her ;  all  happy 
save  the  poor  notary,  on  whose  forehead  the  big  drops  of 
sweat  were  standing. 

"  Come,  my  daughter,"  said  Fra  Pacifico,  advancing, 
"  fear  not  to  sign  the  marriage-contract.  Think  of  the 
blessings  it  will  bring  to  hundreds  of  miserable  peasants, 
who  are  suffering  from  your  want  of  means  to  help  them  !  " 

"  Fra  Pacifico,"  exclaimed  the  marchesa,  scarcely  able 
to  control  herself,  "  I  respect  your  office,  but  this  is  still 
my  house,  and  I  order  you  to  be  silent.  Where  am  I  to 
sign  ?  " — she  addressed  herself  to  Ser  Giacomo. 

"  Here,  madame,"  answered  the  almost  inaudible  voice 
of  the  notary. 

The  marchesa  took  the  pen,  and  in  a  large,  firm  hand 
wrote  her  full  name  and  titles.  She  took  a  malicious  pleas 
ure  in  spreading  them  out  over  the  page. 

Enrica  signed  her  name,  in  delicate  little  letters,  after 
her  aunt's.  Count  Nobili  had  already  affixed  his  signature. 
Cavaliere  Trenta  and  the  priest  were  the  witnesses. 

"  There  is  one  request  I  would  make,  marchesa,"  Nobili 
said,  addressing  her.  "I  shall  await  in  Lucca  the  exact 
day  you  may  please  to  name  ;  but,  madame  " — and  with  a 
lover's  ardor  strong  within  him,  he  advanced  nearer  to 
where  the  marchesa  stood,  and  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
touch  her — "  I  beg  j'ou  not  to  keep  me  waiting  long." 

The  marchesa  drew  back,  and  contemplated  him  with 
a  haughty  stare.  His  manner  and  his  request  were  both 
alike  offensive  to  her.  She  would  have  Count  Nobili  to  un 
derstand  that  she  would  admit  no  shadow  of  familiarity ; 
that  her  will  had  been  forced,  but  that  in  all  else  she  re 
garded  him  with  the  same  animosity  as  before. 

Nobili  had  understood  her  action  and   her  meaning. 


THE   CONTRACT.  203 

"  Devil ! "  he  muttered  between  his  clinched  teeth.  He 
hated  himself  for  having  been  betrayed  into  the  smallest 
warmth.  With  a  flashing  eye  he  turned  from  the  marchesa 
to  Enrica,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  My  only  love,  this  is 
more  than  I  can  bear  ! " 

Enrica  had  heard  nothing.  She  had  been  lost  in  happy 
thoughts.  In  her  mind  a  vision  was  passing.  She  was  in 
the  close  street  of  San  Simone,  within  its  deep  shadows 
that  fell  so  early  in  the  afternoon.  Before  her  stood  the 
two  grim  palaces,  the  cavernous  doorways  and  the  sculp 
tured  arms  of  the  Guinigi  displayed  on  both  :  one,  her  old 
home  ;  the  other,  that  was  to  be  her  home.  She  saw  her 
self  go  in  here,  cross  the  pillared  court  and  mount  upward. 
It  was  neither  day  nor  night,  but  all  shone  with  crystal 
brightness.  Then  Nobili's  voice  came  to  her,  and  she 
roused  herself. 

"  My  love,"  he  repeated,  "  I  must  go — I  must  go  !  I 
cannot  trust  myself  a  moment  longer  with — " 

What  he  had  on  his  lips  need  not  be  written.  "  That 
lady,"  he  added,  hastily  correcting  himself,  and  he  pointed 
to  the  marchesa,  who,  led  by  the  cavaliere,  had  reseated 
herself  upon  the  sofa,  Io6king  defiance  at  everybody. 

"  I  have  borne  it  all  for  your  sake,  Enrica."  As  Nobili 
spoke,  he  led  her  aside  to  one  of  the  windows.  "  Now, 
good-by,"  and  his  eyes  gathered  upon  her  with  passionate 
fondness  ;  "  think  of  me  day  and  night." 

Enrica  had  not  uttered  a  single  word  since  she  first  en 
tered,  except  to  Nobili.  When  he  spoke  of  parting,  her 
head  dropped  on  her  breast.  A  dread — a  horror  came  sud 
denly  upon  her.  "  O  Nobili,  why  must  we  part  ?  " 

"  Scarcely  to  part,"  he  answered,  pressing  her  hand — 
"  only  for  a  few  days ;  then  always  to  be  together." 

Enrica  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his,  but  he  held 
it  firmly.  Then  she  turned  away  her  head,  and  big  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  When  at  last  Nobili  tore  himself 


262  THE  ITALIANS. 

Pacifico  when  he  assumed  the  dignity  of  his  priestly  office), 
Trenta  hurried  forward  and  offered  his  arm  to  lead  her  to 
the  table.  She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  cast  her  eyes 
round  at  the  group  of  happy  faces  about  her ;  all  happy 
save  the  poor  notary,  on  whose  forehead  the  big  drops  of 
sweat  were  standing. 

"  Come,  my  daughter,"  said  Fra  Pacifico,  advancing, 
"  fear  not  to  sign  the  marriage-contract.  Think  of  the 
blessings  it  will  bring  to  hundreds  of  miserable  peasants, 
who  are  suffering  from  your  want  of  means  to  help  them  ! " 

"  Fra  Pacifico,"  exclaimed  the  marchesa,  scarcely  able 
to  control  herself,  "  I  respect  your  office,  but  this  is  still 
my  house,  and  I  order  you  to  be  silent.  Where  am  I  to 
sign  ?  " — she  addressed  herself  to  Ser  Giacomo. 

"  Here,  madame,"  answered  the  almost  inaudible  voice 
of  the  notary. 

The  marchesa  took  the  pen,  and  in  a  large,  firm  hand 
wrote  her  full  name  and  titles.  She  took  a  malicious  pleas 
ure  in  spreading  them  out  over  the  page. 

Enrica  signed  her  name,  in  delicate  little  letters,  after 
her  aunt's.  Count  Nobili  had  already  affixed  his  signature. 
Cavaliere  Trenta  and  the  priest  were  the  witnesses. 

"  There  is  one  request  I  would  make,  marchesa,"  Nobili 
said,  addressing  her.  "I  shall  await  in  Lucca  the  exact 
day  you  may  please  to  name  ;  but,  madame  " — and  with  a 
lover's  ardor  strong  within  him,  he  advanced  nearer  to 
where  the  marchesa  stood,  and  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
touch  her — "  I  beg  you  not  to  keep  me  waiting  long." 

The  marchesa  drew  back,  and  contemplated  him  with 
a  haughty  stare.  His  manner  and  his  request  were  both 
alike  oifensive  to  her.  She  would  have  Count  Nobili  to  un 
derstand  that  she  would  admit  no  shadow  of  familiarity ; 
that  her  will  had  been  forced,  but  that  in  all  else  she  re 
garded  him  with  the  same  animosity  as  before. 

Nobili  had  understood  her  action  and   her  meaning. 


THE   CONTRACT.  2G3 

"  Devil ! "  he  muttered  between  his  clinched  teeth.  He 
hated  himself  for  having  been  betrayed  into  the  smallest 
warmth.  With  a  flashing  eye  he  turned  from  the  marchesa 
to  Enrica,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  My  only  love,  this  is 
more  than  I  can  bear  ! " 

Enrica  had  heard  nothing.  She  had  been  lost  in  happy 
thoughts.  In  her  mind  a  vision  was  passing.  She  was  in 
the  close  street  of  San  Simone,  within  its  deep  shadows 
that  fell  so  early  in  the  afternoon.  Before  her  stood  the 
two  grim  palaces,  the  cavernous  doorways  and  the  sculp 
tured  arms  of  the  Guinigi  displayed  on  both  :  one,  her  old 
home  ;  the  other,  that  was  to  be  her  home.  She  saw  her 
self  go  in  here,  cross  the  pillared  court  and  mount  upward. 
It  was  neither  day  nor  night,  but  all  shone  with  crystal 
brightness.  Then  Nobili's  voice  came  to  her,  and  she 
roused  herself. 

"  My  love,"  he  repeated,  "  I  must  go — I  must  go  !  I 
cannot  trust  myself  a  moment  longer  with — " 

What  he  had  on  his  lips  need  not  be  written.  "  That 
lady,"  he  added,  hastily  correcting  himself,  and  he  pointed 
to  the  marchesa,  who,  led  by  the  cavaliere,  had  reseated 
herself  upon  the  sofa,  looking  defiance  at  everybody. 

"  I  have  borne  it  all  for  your  sake,  Enrica."  As  Nobili 
spoke,  he  led  her  aside  to  one  of  the  windows.  "  Now, 
good-by,"  and  his  eyes  gathered  upon  her  with  passionate 
fondness ;  "  think  of  me  day  and  night." 

Enrica  had  not  uttered  a  single  word  since  she  first  en 
tered,  except  to  Nobili.  When  he  spoke  of  parting,  her 
head  dropped  on  her  breast.  A  dread — a  horror  came  sud 
denly  upon  her.  "  O  Nobili,  why  must  we  part  ?  " 

"  Scarcely  to  part,"  he  answered,  pressing  her  hand — 
"  only  for  a  few  days ;  then  always  to  be  together." 

Enrica  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his,  but  he  held 
it  firmly.  Then  she  turned  away  her  head,  and  big  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  When  at  last  Nobili  tore  himself 


262  THE  ITALIANS. 

Pacifico  when  he  assumed  the  dignity  of  his  priestly  office), 
Trenta  hurried  forward  and  offered  his  arm  to  lead  her  to 
the  table.  She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  cast  her  eyes 
round  at  the  group  of  happy  faces  about  her ;  all  happy 
save  the  poor  notary,  on  whose  forehead  the  big  drops  of 
sweat  were  standing. 

"  Come,  my  daughter,"  said  Fra  Pacifico,  advancing, 
"  fear  not  to  sign  the  marriage-contract.  Think  of  the 
blessings  it  will  bring  to  hundreds  of  miserable  peasants, 
who  are  suffering  from  your  want  of  means  to  help  them  !  " 

"  Fra  Pacifico,"  exclaimed  the  marchesa,  scarcely  able 
to  control  herself,  "  I  respect  your  office,  but  this  is  still 
my  house,  and  I  order  you  to  be  silent.  Where  am  I  to 
sign  ?  " — she  addressed  herself  to  Ser  Giacomo. 

"  Here,  inadame,"  answered  the  almost  inaudible  voice 
of  the  notary. 

The  marchesa  took  the  pen,  and  in  a  large,  firm  hand 
wrote  her  full  name  and  titles.  She  took  a  malicious  pleas 
ure  in  spreading  them  out  over  the  page. 

Enrica  signed  her  name,  in  delicate  little  letters,  after 
her  aunt's.  Count  Nobili  had  already  affixed  his  signature. 
Cavaliere  Trenta  and  the  priest  were  the  witnesses. 

"  There  is  one  request  I  would  make,  marchesa,"  Nobili 
said,  addressing  her.  "I  shall  await  in  Lucca  the  exact 
day  you  may  please  to  name  ;  but,  madame  " — and  with  a 
lover's  ardor  strong  within  him,  he  advanced  nearer  to 
where  the  marchesa  stood,  and  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
touch  her — "  I  beg  jrou  not  to  keep  me  waiting  long." 

The  marchesa  drew  back,  and  contemplated  him  with 
a  haughty  stare.  His  manner  and  his  request  were  both 
alike  offensive  to  her.  She  would  have  Count  Nobili  to  un 
derstand  that  she  would  admit  no  shadow  of  familiarity ; 
that  her  will  had  been  forced,  but  that  in  all  else  she  re 
garded  him  with  the  same  animosity  as  before. 

Nobili  had  understood  her  action  and   her  meaning. 


THE   CONTRACT.  2G3 

"  Devil ! "  he  muttered  between  his  clinched  teeth.  He 
hated  himself  for  having  been  betrayed  into  the  smallest 
warmth.  With  a  flashing  eye  he  turned  from  the  marchesa 
to  Enrica,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  My  only  love,  this  is 
more  than  I  can  bear  ! " 

Enrica  had  heard  nothing.  She  had  been  lost  in  happy 
thoughts.  In  her  mind  a  vision  was  passing.  She  was  in 
the  close  street  of  San  Simone,  within  its  deep  shadows 
that  fell  so  early  in  the  afternoon.  Before  her  stood  the 
two  grim  palaces,  the  cavernous  doorways  and  the  sculp 
tured  arms  of  the  Guinigi  displayed  on  both  :  one,  her  old 
home  ;  the  other,  that  was  to  be  her  home.  She  saw  her 
self  go  in  here,  cross  the  pillared  court  and  mount  upward. 
It  was  neither  day  nor  night,  but  all  shone  with  crystal 
brightness.  Then  Nobili's  voice  came  to  her,  and  she 
roused  herself. 

"  My  love,"  he  repeated,  "  I  must  go — I  must  go  !  I 
cannot  trust  myself  a  moment  longer  with — " 

What  he  had  on  his  lips  need  not  be  written.  "  That 
lady,"  he  added,  hastily  correcting  himself,  and  he  pointed 
to  the  marchesa,  who,  led  by  the  cavaliere,  had  reseated 
herself  upon  the  sofa,  looking  defiance  at  everybody. 

"  I  have  borne  it  all  for  your  sake,  Enrica."  As  Nobili 
spoke,  he  led  her  aside  to  one  of  the  windows.  "  Now, 
good-by,"  and  his  eyes  gathered  upon  her  with  passionate 
fondness ;  "  think  of  me  day  and  night." 

Enrica  had  not  uttered  a  single  word  since  she  first  en 
tered,  except  to  Nobili.  When  he  spoke  of  parting,  her 
head  dropped  on  her  breast.  A  dread — a  horror  came  sud 
denly  upon  her.  "  O  Nobili,  why  must  we  part  ?  " 

"  Scarcely  to  part,"  he  answered,  pressing  her  hand — 
"  only  for  a  few  days ;  then  always  to  be  together." 

Enrica  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his,  but  he  held 
it  firmly.  Then  she  turned  away  her  head,  and  big  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  When  at  last  Nobili  tore  himself 


274  THE   ITALIANS. 

are  undetected  in  New  Itaty,  where  there  is  so  much  to 
learn).  Prince  Ruspoli  swings  round  this  Avhip  as  he  mounts 
the  steps  of  the  club.  The  others,  who  are  watching  his 
approach,  are  secretly  devoured  with  envy. 

"  Wall,  Pietrino — wall,  Beppo,"  said  Ruspoli,  shaking 
hands  with  Orsetti  and  Malatesta,  and  nodding  to  Orazio,  out 
of  whose  sails  he  took  the  wind  by  force  of  stolid  indiffer 
ence  (Baldassare  he  ignored,  or  mistook  him  for  a  waiter, 
if  he  saw  him  at  all),  "you  are  all  discussing  the  news,  of 
course.  Lucca's  lively  to-day.  You'll  all  do  in  time,  even 
to  steeple-chases.  We  must  run  one  down  on  the  low 
grounds  in  the  spring.  Dick,  my  English  groom,  is  always 
plaguing  me  about  it." 

Then  Prince  Ruspoli  pulled  himself  together  with  a 
jerk,  as  a  man  does  stiff  from  the  saddle,  laid  his  hunting- 
whip  upon  a  table,  stuffed  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
looked  round. 

"  What  news  have  you  heard  ?  "  asked  Beppo  Malatesta. 
"  There's  such  a  lot." 

"  Wall,  the  news  I  have  heard  is,  that  Count  Nobili  is 
engaged  to  marry  the  Marchesa  Guinigi's  little  niece. 
Dear  little  thing,  they  say — like  an  English  '  mees  ' — fair, 
with  red  hair." 

"  Is  that  your  style  of  beauty  ?  "  lisped  Orazio,  looking 
hard  at  him.  But  Ruspoli  did  not  notice  him. 

"  But  that's  not  half,"  cried  Malatesta.  "  You  are  an 
innocent,  Ruspoli.  Let  me  baptize  you  with  scandal." 

"  Don't,  don't,  I  hate  scandal,"  said  Ruspoli,  taking 
one  of  his  hands  out  of  his  pocket  for  a  moment,  and  hold 
ing  it  up  in  remonstrance.  "  There  is  nothing  but  scandal 
in  these  small  Italian  towns.  Take  to  hunting,  that's  the 
cure.  Nobili  is  to  marry  the  little  girl,  that's  certain. 
He's  to  pay  off  all  the  marchesa's  debts,  that's  certain  too. 
He's  rich,  she's  poor.  He  wants  blood,  she  has  got  it." 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  this  marriage,"  said  Orazio,  meas- 


THE   CLUB   AT   LUCCA.  275 

uring  Prince  Ruspoli  as  he  stood  erect,  his  slits  of  eyes 
without  a  shadow  of  expression.  "You  remember  the 
ballroom,  prince  ?  And  the  Boccarini  family  grouped — 
and  Nobili  crying  in  a  corner?  Nobili  will  marry  the 
Boccarini.  She  is  a  stunner." 

After  Orazio  had  ventured  this  observation  about  Nera 
Boccarini,  Prince  Ruspoli  brought  his  small,  steely  eyes  to 
bear  upon  him  with  a  fixed  stare. 

Orazio  affected  total  unconsciousness,  but  he  quailed 
inwardly.  The  others  silently  watched  Ruspoli.  He  took 
up  his  hunting-whip  and  whirled  it  in  the  air  dangerously 
near  Orazio's  head,  eying  him  all  the  while  as  a  dog  eyes 
a  rat  he  means  to  crunch  between  his  teeth. 

"  Whoever  says  that  Count  Nobili  will  marry  the  Boc- 
cariui,  is  a  liar ! "  Prince  Ruspoli  spoke  with  perfect 
composure,  still  whirling  his  whip.  "  I  shall  be  happy  to 
explain  my  reason  anywhere,  out  of  the  city,  on  the  short 
est  notice." 

Orazio  started  up.  "  Prince  Ruspoli,  do  you  call  me  a 
liar  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied  Ruspoli,  quite  unmoved, 
making  Orazio  a  mock  bow.  "  Did  you  say  whom  Count 
Nobili  would  marry  ?  If  you  did,  will  you  favor  me  by  re 
peating  it  ?  " 

"  I  only  report  town-talk,"  Franchi  answered,  sullenly. 
"  I  am  not  answerable  for  town-talk." 

Ruspoli  was  a  dead-shot ;  Orazio  only  fought  with 
swords. 

"  Then  I  am  satisfied,"  replied  Ruspoli,  quiet  defiance 
in  his  look  and  tone.  "  I  accuse  you,  Signore  Orazio  Fran 
chi,  of  nothing.  I  only  warn  you." 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  should  quarrel  about  Nobili's  mar 
riage.  He  will  be  here  himself  present!}',  to  explain  which 
of  the  ladies  he  prefers,"  observed  the  peaceable  Orsetti. 

"  I  don't  know  which  lady  Count  Nobili  prefers,"  re- 


276  THE   ITALIANS. 

torted  Ruspoli,  doggedly.     "  But  I  tell  you  the  name  of  the 
lady  he  is  to  marry.     It  is  Enrica  Guinigi." 

"  Why,  there  is  Count  Nobili !  "  cried  Baldassare,  quite 
loud — "  there,  under  the  plane-trees." 

"  Bravo,  Adonis ! "  cried  Beppo  ;  "  your  eyes  are  as 
sharp  as  your  feet  are  swift." 

Nobili  crossed  the  square  ;  he  was  coming  toward  the 
club.  Every  face  was  turned,  toward  him.  He  had  come 
down  to  Lucca  like  one  maddened  by  the  breath  of  love. 
All  along  the  road  he  had  felt  drunk  with  happiness.  To 
him  love  was  everywhere — in  the  deep  gloom  of  the  moun 
tain-forests,  in  the  flowing  river,  diamonded  with  light  un 
der  the  pale  moonbeams ;  in  the  splendor  of  the  starry  sky, 
in  midnight  dreams  of  bliss,  and  in  the  awakening  of  glori 
ous  morning.  The  two  old  palaces  were  full  of  love — the 
Moorish  garden ;  the  magnolias  that  overtopped  the  wall, 
and  the  soft,  creamy  perfume  that  wafted  from  them ;  the 
very  street  through  which  he  should  lead  her  home  ;  every 
one  he  saw ;  all  he  said,  thought,  or  did — it  was  all  love 
and  Enrica ! 

Now,  having  with  lover's  haste  made  good  progress 
with  all  he  had  to  do,  Nobili  has  come  down  to  the  club  to 
meet  his  friends,  and  to  receive  their  congratulations. 
Every  hand  is  stretched  out  toward  him.  Even  Ruspoli, 
spite  of  obvious  jealousy,  liked  him.  Nobili's  face  is  lit  up 
with  its  sunniest  smile.  Having  shaken  hands  with  him, 
an  ominous  silence  ensues.  Orsetti  and  Malatesta  sudden 
ly  find  that  their  cigars  want  relighting,  and  turn  aside. 
Orazio  seats  himself  at  a  distance,  and  scowls  at  Prince 
Ruspoli.  Nobili  gives  a  quick  glance  round.  An  instant 
tells  him  that  something  is  wrong. 

Prince  Ruspoli  breaks  the  awkward  silence.  He  walks 
up,  looks  at  Nobili  with  immovable  gravity,  then  slaps 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Nobili.  I  hear  you  are  to  marry 
the  Marchesa  Guinigi's  niece.'' 


THE  CLUB  AT  LUCCA.  377 

"  Balduccio,  I  thank  you.  Within  a  week  I  hope  to 
bring  her  home  to  Lucca.  There  will  then  be  but  one 
Guinigi  home  in  the  two  palaces.  The  marchesa  makes 
her  heiress  of  all  she  possesses." 

Prince  Ruspoli  is  satisfied.  Now  he  will  back  Count 
Nobili  to  any  odds.  He  will  name  his  next  foal  Mario 
Nobili. 

Again  Nobili  glances  round  ;  this  time  there  is  the 
shadow  of  a  frown  upon  his  smooth  brow.  Orsetti  feels 
that  he  must  speak. 

"  Have  you  known  the  lady  long  ?  "  Orsetti  asks,  with 
an  embarrassment  foreign  to  him. 

"  Yes,  and  no,"  answers  Nobili,  reddening,  and  scanning 
the  veiled  expression  on  Orsetti's  face  with  intense  curiosity. 
"  But  the  matter  has  been  brought  to  a  crisis  by  the  acci 
dental  burning  of  the  marchesa's  house  at  Corellia.  I  was 
present — I  saved  her  niece." 

"  I  thought  it  was  rather  sudden,"  says  Orazio,  from  be 
hind,  in  a  tone  full  of  suggestion.  "  We  were  in  doubt,  be 
fore  you  came,  to  whom  the  lady  was  engaged." 

Nobili  starts. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asks,  hastily. 

The  color  has  left  his  cheeks ;  his  blue  eyes  grow  dark. 

"  There  has  been  some  foolish  gossip  from  persons  who 
know  nothing,"  Orsetti  answers,  advancing  to  the  front. 
"  About  some  engagement  with  another  gentleman,  whom 
she  had  accepted — " 

"Nonsense!  Don't  listen  to  him,  my  good  fellow," 
breaks  in  Ruspoli.  "  These  lads  have  nothing  to  do  but 
to  breed  scandal.  They  would  slander  the  Virgin ;  not 
for  wickedness,  but  for  idleness.  I  mean  to  make  them 
hunt.  Hunting  is  the  cure." 

Nobili  stands  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

"  But  I  must  listen,"  replies  Nobili,  fiercely,  fire  flaming 
in  his  eyes.  "  This  lady's  honor  is  my  own.  Who  has 


278  THE  ITALIANS. 

dared  to  couple  her  name  with  any  other  man  ?  Orsetti — 
Ruspoli " — and  he  turns  to  them  in  great  excitement — 
"  you  are  my  friends.  What  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Orsetti,  trying  to  smile,  but  not  suc 
ceeding.  "  I  hear,  Nobili,  you  have  behaved  with  extraor 
dinary  generosity,"  he  adds,  fencing  the  question. 

"  Yes,  by  Jove !  "  adds  Prince  Ruspoli.  Ruspoli  was 
leaning  up  against  a  pillar,  watching  Orazio  as  he  would  a 
mischievous  cur.  "  A  most  suitable  marriage.  Not  that 
I  care  a  button  for  blood,  except  in  horses." 

Nobili  has  not  moved,  but,  as  each  speaks,  his  eye 
shifts  rapidly  from  one  to  the  other.  His  face  from  pale 
grows  livid,  and  there  is  a  throb  about  his  temples  that 
sounds  in  his  ears  like  a  thousand  hammers. 

'•'  Orsetti,"  Nobili  says,  sternly,  "  I  address  myself  to 
you.  You  are  the  oldest  here.  You  are  the  first  man  I 
knew  after  I  came  to  Lucca.  You  are  all  concealing  some 
thing  from  me.  I  entreat  you,  Orsetti,  as  man  to  man,  tell 
me  whose  name  has  been  coupled  with  that  of  my  affianced 
wife  ?  That  it  is  a  lie  I  know  beforehand — a  base  and  palpa 
ble  lie !  She  has  been  reared  at  home  in  perfect  solitude." 

Nobili  spoke  with  passionate  vehemence.  The  hot 
blood  rushed  over  his  face  and  neck,  and  tingled  to  his 
very  fingers.  Now  he  glances  from  man  to  man  in  an  ap 
peal  defiant,  yet  pleading,  pitiful  to  behold.  Every  face 
grows  grave. 

Orsetti  is  the  first  to  reply. 

';  I  feel  deeply  for  you,  Nobili.     We  all  love  you." 

"  Yes,  all,"  responded  Malatesta  and  Ruspoli,  speaking 
together. 

"  You  must  not  attach  too  much  importance  to  idle 
gossip,"  says  Orsetti. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Ruspoli,  "  don't.  I  will  stand  by  you, 
Nobili.  I  know  the  lady  by  sight — a  little  English  beau- 
ty." 


THE   CLUB   AT   LTJCCA.  279 

"  Scandal !  Who  is  the  man  ?  By  God,  I'll  have  his 
blood  within  this  very  hour  !  " 

Nobili  is  now  wrought  up  beyond  all  endurance. 

"You  can't,"  says  Orazio  Francbi,  tapping  his  heel 
upon  the  marble  pavement.  "  He's  gone." 

"  Gone !  I'll  follow  him  to  hell ! "  roars  Nobili  "  Who 
is  he?" 

"  Possibly  he  may  find  his  own  way  there  in  time,"  an 
swers  Orazio,  with  a  sneer.  He  rises  so  as  to  increase  the 
distance  between  himself  and  Prince  Ruspoli.  "  But  as  yet 
the  wretch  crawls  on  mother  earth." 

"  Silence,  Orazio  ! "  shouts  Ruspoli,  "  or  you  may  go 
there  yourself  quicker  than  Marescotti." 

"  Marescotti !  Is  that  the  name  ?  "  cries  Nobili,  with  a 
hungry  eye,  that  seems  to  thirst  for  vengeance.  "  Who  is 
Marescotti  ?  " 

"  This  is  some  horrid  fiction,"  Nobili  mutters  to  him 
self.  Stay ! — Where  had  he  heard  that  name  lately  ?  He 
gnawed  his  fingers  until  the  blood  came,  and  a  crimson 
drop  fell  upon  the  marble  floor.  Suddenly  an  icy  chill  rose 
at  his  heart.  He  could  not  breathe.  He  sank  into  a  chair 
— then  rose  again,  and  stood  before  Orsetti  with  a  face  out 
of  which  ten  years  of  youth  had  fled.  Yes,  Marescotti — 
that  is  the  very  man  Enrica  had  mentioned  to  him  under 
the  trees  at  Corellia.  Each  letter  of  it  blazes  in  fire  before 
his  eyes.  Yes — she  had  said  Marescotti  had  read  her 
eyes.  "  O  God !  "  and  Nobili  groans  aloud,  and  buries  his 
face  within  his  hands. 

"  You  take  this  too  much  to  heart,  my  dear  Mario," 
Count  Orsetti  said ;  "  indeed  you  do,  else  I  would  not  say 
so.  Remember  there  is  nothing  proved.  Be  careful,"  Or 
setti  whispered  in  the  other's  ear,  glancing  round.  Every 
eye  was  riveted  on  Nobili. 

Orsetti  felt  that  Nobili  had  forgotten  the  public  place 
and  the  others  present — such  as  Count  Malatesta,  Orazio 


280  THE  ITALIANS. 

Franchi,  and  Baldassare,  who,  though  they  had  not  spoken, 
had  devoured  every  word. 

"  It  is  nothing  but  a  sonnet  found  among  Marescotti's 
papers."  Orsetti  now  was  speaking.  "  Marescotti  has  fled 
from  the  police.  Nothing  but  a  sonnet  addressed  to  the 
lady — a  poet's  day-dream — untrue  of  course." 

"  Will  no  one  tell  me  what  the  sonnet  said  ?  "  demanded 
Nobili.  He  had  mastered  himself  for  the  moment. 

"  Stuff,  stuff! "  cried  Ruspoli.  "  Every  pretty  woman  has 
heaps  of  sonnets  and  admirers.  It  is  a  brevet  of  beauty. 
After  all  this  row,  it  was  only  an  offer  of  marriage  made  to 
Count  Marescotti  and  refused  by  him.  Probably  the  lady 
never  knew  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  did,  she  accepted  him,"  sounded  from  be 
hind.  It  was  Baldassare,  whose  vanity  was  piqued  because 
no  one  had  referred  to  him  for  imformation. 

"  Accepted !  Refused  by  Count  Marescotti ! "  Nobili 
caught  and  repeated  the  words  in  a  voice  so  strange,  it 
sounded  like  the  echo  from  a  vault. 

"  "Wall !  by  Jove !  It's  five  o'clock ! "  exclaimed  Prince 
Ruspoli,  looking  at  his  watch.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said, 
addressing  Nobili,  "  I  have  an  appointment  on  the  ramparts ; 
will  you  go  with  me?"  He  passed  his  arm  through  that 
of  Nobili.  It  was  a  painful  scene,  which  Ruspoli  desired 
to  end.  Nobili  shook  his  head.  He  was  so  stunned  and 
dazed  he  could  not  speak. 

"  If  it  is  five  o'clock,"  said  Malatesta,  "  I  must  go  too." 

Malatesta  drew  Nobili  a  little  apart.  "  Don't  think  too 
much  of  this,  Nobili.  It  will  all  blow  over  and  be  forgotten 
in  a  month.  Take  your  wife  a  trip  to  Paris  or  London. 
We  shall  hear  no  more  of  it,  believe  me.  Good-by." 

"  Count  Nobili,"  called  out  Franchi,  from  the  other  end 
of  the  portico,  making  a  languid  bow,  "  after  all  that  I 
have  heard,  I  congratulate  you  on  your  marriage  most  sin 
cerely." 


THE   CLUB  AT    LUCCA.  281 

Nobili  did  not  hear  him.  All  were  gone.  He  was 
alone  with  Ruspoli.  His  head  had  dropped  upon  his  breast. 
There  was  the  shadow  of  a  tear  in  Prince  Ruspoli's  steely 
eye.  It  was  not  enough  to  be  brushed  off,  for  it  absorbed 
itself  and  came  to  nothing,  but  it  was  there  nevertheless. 

"  Wall,  Mario,"  he  said,  apparently  unmoved,  "  it  seems 
to  me  the  club  is  made  too  hot  to  hold  you.  Come  home." 

Nobili  nodded.  He  was  so  weak  he  had  to  hang  heavily 
on  Prince  Ruspoli's  arm  as  they  crossed  the  piazza.  Prince 
Ruspoli  did  not  leave  him  until  he  saw  him  safe  to  his  own 
door. 

"You  will  judge  what  is  right  to  do,"  were  Ruspoli's 
last  words.  "  But  do  not  be  guided  by  those  young  scamps. 
They  live  in  mischief.  If  you  love  the  girl,  marry  her — 
that  is  my  advice." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

COUNT  NOBILl's   THOUGHTS. 

I  HAVE  seen  a  valley  canopied  by  a  sky  of  blue  and 
opaline,  girt  in  by  wooded  heights,  on  which  the  sun 
poured  down  in  mid-day  splendor.  A  broad  river  sparkled 
downward,  giving  back  ray  for  ray.  The  forest  glowed 
without  a  shadow.  Each  little  detail  of  leaf  or  stone,  even 
a  blade  of  grass,  was  turned  to  flame.  The  corn  lay  smooth 
and  golden.  The  grapes  and  olives  hung  safe  upon  the 
branch.  The  flax — a  goodly  crop — reached  to  the  trees. 
The  peasants  labored  in  the  rich  brown  soil,  singing  to  the 
oxen.  The  women  sat  spinning  beside  their  doors.  A 
little  maid  led  out  her  snowy  lamb  to  graze  among  the 
woods,  and  children  played  at  "  morra "  beside  the  river, 
which  ran  at  peace,  lapping  the  silver  sand. 

A  cloud  gathers  behind  the  mountains — yonder,  where 
they  come  interlacing  down,  narrowing  the  valley.  It  is 
a  little  cloud,  no  one  observes  it ;  yet  it  gathers  and  spreads 
and  blackens,  until  the  sky  is  veiled.  The  sun  grows  pale. 
A  greenish  light  steals  over  the  earth.  In  the  still  air 
there  is  a  sudden  freshness.  The  tall  canes  growing  in  the 
brakes  among  the  vineyards  rustle  as  if  shaken  by  a  spec 
tral  hand.  The  white-leaved  aspens  quiver.  An  icy  wind 
sweeps  down  the  mountain-sides.  A  flash  of  lightning 
shoots  across  the  sky.  Then  the  storm  bursts.  Thunder 


COUNT  NOBILI'S  THOUGHTS.  283 

rolls,  and  cracks,  and  crashes ;  as  if  the  brazen  gates  of 
heaven  clashed  to  and  fro.  The  peasants  fly,  driving  their 
cattle  before  them.  The  pigs  run  grunting  homeward. 
The  helpless  lamb  is  stricken  where  it  stands,  crouching  in 
a  deep  gorge;  the  little  maid  sits  weeping  by.  Down 
beats  the  hail  like  pebbles.  It  strikes  upon  the  vines, 
scorches  and  blackens  them.  The  wheat  is  leveled  to  the 
ground.  The  river  suddenly  swells  into  a  raging  torrent. 
Its  turbid  waters  bear  away  the  riches  of  the  poor — the 
cow  that  served  a  little  household  and  followed  the  children, 
lowing,  to  reedy  meadows  bathed  by  limpid  streams — a 
horse  caught  browsing  in  a  peaceful  vale,  thinking  no  ill 
— great  trees  hurling  destruction  with  them.  Rafters,  roofs 
of  houses,  sometimes  a  battered  corpse,  float  by. 

The  roads  are  broken  up.  The  bridge  is  snapped. 
Years  will  not  repair  the  fearful  ravage.  The  evening  sun 
sets  on  a  desolate  waste.  Men  sit  along  the  road-side 
wringing  their  hands  beside  their  ruined  crops.  Children 
creep  out  upon  their  naked  feet,  and  look  and  wonder. 
Where  is  the  little  kid  that  ran  before  and  licked  their 
hands  ?  Where  is  the  gray-skinned,  soft-eyed  cow  that 
hardly  needed  a  cord  to  lead  her?  The  shapely  cob,  so 
brave  with  its  tinkling  bells  and  crimson  tassels  ?  The  cob 
that  daddy  drove  to  market,  and  many  merry  fairs  ?  Gone 
with  the  storm !  all  gone  ! 

Count  Nobili  was  like  the  Italian  climate — in  extremes. 
Like  his  native  soil,  he  must  live  in  the  sunshine.  His  was 
not  a  nature  to  endure  a  secret  sorrow.  He  must  be  kissed, 
caressed,  and  smoothed  by  tender  hands  and  loving  voices. 
He  must  have  applause,  approval,  be  flattered,  envied,  and 
followed.  Hitherto  all  this  had  come  naturally  to  him. 
His  gracious  temper,  generous  heart,  and  great  wealth,  had 
made  all  bright  about  him.  Now  a  sudden  storm  had 
swept  over  him  and  brought  despair  into  his  heart. 


284  THE  ITALIANS. 

When  Prince  Ruspoli  left  him,  Nobili  felt  as  battered 
and  sore  as  if  a  whirlwind  had  caught  him,  then  let  him  go, 
and  he  had  dropped  to  earth  a  broken  man.  Yet  in  the 
turmoil  of  his  brain  a  pale,  scared  little  face,  with  wild, 
beseeching  eyes,  was  ever  before  him.  It  would  not  leave 
him.  What  was  this  horrible  nightmare  that  had  come 
over  him  in  the  heyday  of  his  joy  ?  It  was  so  vague,  yet 
so  tangible  if  judged  by  its  effect  on  others.  Others  held 
Enrica  dishonored,  that  was  clear.  Was  she  dishonored  ? 
He  was  bound  to  her  by  every  tie  of  honor.  He  loved  her. 
She  had  a  charm  for  him  no  other  woman  ever  possessed, 
and  she  loved  him.  A  women's  eye,  he  told  himself,  had 
never  deceived  him.  Yes,  she  loved  him.  Yet  if  Enrica 
were  as  guileless  as  she  seemed,  how  could  she  conceal  from 
him  she  had  another  lover — less  loved  perhaps  than  he — 
but  still  a  lover  ?  And  this  lover  had  refused  to  marry  her  ? 
That  was  the  stab.  That  every  one  in  Lucca  should  know 
his  future  bride  had  been  scouted  by  another  man  who  had 
turned  a  rhyme  upon  her,  and  left  her !  Could  he  bear  this  ? 

What  were  Enrica's  relations  with  Marescotti  ?  Some 
one  had  said  she  had  accepted  him.  Nobili  was  sure  he 
had  heard  this.  He,  Marescotti,  must  have  approached  her 
nearly  by  her  own  confession.  He  had  celebrated  her 
in  sonnets,  amorous  sonnets — damnable  thought ! — gone 
with  her  to  the  Guinigi  Tower — then  rejected  her !  A 
mist  seemed  to  gather  about  Nobili  as  he  thought  of  this. 
He  grew  stupid  in  long  vistas  of  speculation.  Had  Enrica 
not  dared  to  meet  him — Nobili — clandestinely  ?  Was  not 
this  very  act  unmaidenly  ?  (Such  are  men :  they  urge  the 
slip,  the  fall,  then  judge  a  woman  by  the  force  of  their  own 
urging !)  Had  Enrica  met  Marescotti  in  secret  also  ?  No 
— impossible  !  The  .scared,  white  face  was  before  Nobili, 
now  plainer  than  ever.  No — he  hated  himself  for  the 
very  thought.  All  the  chivalry  of  his  nature  rose  up  to 
acquit  her. 


COUNT  NOBILI'S  THOUGHTS.  285 

Still  there  was  a  mystery.  How  far  was  Enrica  con 
cerned  in  it  ?  Would  she  have  married  Count  Marescotti  ? 
Trenta  was  away,  or  he  would  question  him.  Had  he 
better  ask  ?  What  might  he  hear  ?  Some  one  had  de 
ceived  him  grossly.  The  marchesa  would  stick  at  nothing ; 
yet  what  could  the  marchesa  have  done  without  Enrica  ? 
Nobili  was  perplexed  beyond  expression.  He  buried  his 
head  within  his  arms,  and  leaned  upon  a  table  in  an  agony 
of  doubt.  Then  he  paced  up  and  down  the  splendid  room, 
painted  with  frescoed  walls,  and  hung  with  rose  and  silver 
draperies  from  Paris  (it  was  to  have  been  Enrica' s  boudoir), 
looking  south  into  a  delicious  town-garden,  with  statues, 
and  flower-beds,  and  terraces  of  marble  diamonded  in  brill 
iant  colors.  To  be  so  cheated ! — to  be  the  laughing-stock 
of  Lucca  1  Good  God!  how  could  he  bear  it?  To  marry 
a  wife  who  would  be  pointed  at  with  whispered  words ! 
Of  all  earthly  things  this  was  the  bitterest!  Could  he 
bear  it  ? — and  Enrica — would  she  not  suffer  ?  And  if  she 
did,  what  then  ?  Why,  she  deserved  it — she  must  deserve 
it,  else  why  was  she  accused?  Enrica  was  treacherous — 
the  tool  of  her  aunt.  He  could  not  doubt  it.  If  she  cared 
for  him  at  all,  it  was  for  the  sake  of  his  money — hateful 
thought ! — yet,  having  signed  the  contract,  he  supposed 
he  must  give  her  the  name  of  wife.  But  the  future  mother 
of  his  children  was  branded. 

Oh,  the  golden  days  at  mountain-capped  Corellia  ! — that 
watching  in  the  perfumed  woods — that  pleading  with  the 
stars  that  shone  over  Enrica  to  bear  her  his  lovesick  sighs  ! 
Oh,  the  triumph  of  saving  her  dear  life ! — the  sweetness 
of  her  lips  in  that  first  embrace  under  the  magnolia- 
tree  !  Fra  Pacifico  too,  with  his  honest,  sturdy  ways — and 
the  white-haired  cavaliere,  so  wise  and  courteous.  Cheats, 
cheats — all!  It  made  him  sick  to  think  how  they  must 
have  laughed  and  jeered  at  him  when  he  was  gone.  Oh, 
it  was  damnable  ! 


286  THE  ITALIANS. 

His  teeth  were  set.  He  started  up  as  if  he  had  been 
stung,  and  stamped  upon  the  floor.  Then  like  a  madman 
he  rushed  up  and  down  the  spacious  floor.  After  a  time, 
brushing  the  drops  of  perspiration  from  his  forehead,  No- 
bili  grew  calmer.  He  sat  down  to  think. 

Must  he  marry  Enrica? — he  asked  himself  (he  had 
come  to  that) — marry  the  lady  of  the  sonnet — Marescotti's 
love  ?  He  did  not  see  how  he  could  help  it.  The  contract 
was  signed,  and  nothing  proved  against  her.  Well — life 
was  long,  and  the  world  wide,  and  full  of  pleasant  things. 
Well — he  must  bear  it — unless  there  had  been  sin  !  No- 
bili  did  not  see  it,  nor  did  he  hear  it ;  but  much  that  is 
never  seen,  nor  heard,  nor  known,  is  yet  true — horribly  true. 
He  did  see  it,  but  as  he  thought  these  cruel  thoughts,  and 
hardened  himself  in  them,  a  pale,  scared  face,  with  wild, 
pleading  eyes,  vanished  with  a  shriek  of  anguish. 

Others  had  loved  him  well,  Nobili  reasoned — other 
women — "  JVbt  so  well  as  I"  an  inaudible  voice  would  have 
whispered,  but  it  was  no  longer  there  to  answer — others 
that  had  not  been  rejected — others  fairer  than  Enrica — 
Nera ! 

With  that  name  there  came  a  world  of  comfort  to  him. 
Nera  loved  him — she  loved  him !  ^He  had  not  seen  Nera 
since  that  memorable  night  she  lay  like  one  dead  before 
him.  Before  he  took  a  final  resolve  (by-and-by  he  must 
investigate,  inquire,  know  when,  and  how,  and  by  whom, 
all  this  talk  had  come),  would  it  not  be  well  to  see  Nera  ? 
It  was  a  duty,  he  told  himself,  he  owed  her ;  a  duty  delayed 
too  long  ;  only  Enrica  had  so  absorbed  him.  Nera  would 
have  heard  the  town-talk.  How  would  she  take  it? 
Would  she  be  glad,  or  sorry,  he  wondered?  Then  came  a 
longing  upon  Nobili  he  could  not  resist,  to  know  if  Nera 
still  loved  him.  If  so,  what  constancy !  It  deserved 
reward.  He  had  treated  her  shamefully.  How  sweet 
her  company  would  be  if  she  would  see  him  1  At  all 


COUNT  NOBILI'S  THOUGHTS.  287 

events,  he  could  but  try.     At  this  point  he  rose  and  rang 
the  bell. 

When  the  servant  came,  Nobili  ordered  his  dinner.  He 
was  hungry,  he  said,  and  would  eat  at  once.  His  carriage 
he  should  require  later. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


NEEA. 


CLOSE  to  the  Church  of  San  Michele,  where  a  brazen 
archangel  with  outstretched  wings  flaunts  in  the  blue 
sky,  is  the  narrow,  crypt-like  street  of  San  Salvador.  Here 
stands  the  Boccarini  Palace.  It  is  an  ancient  structure, 
square  and  large,  with  an  overhanging  roof  and  open,  pil 
lared  gallery.  On  the  first  floor  there  is  a  stone  balcony. 
Four  rows  of  windows  divide  the  front.  The  lower  ones, 
barred  with  iron,  are  dismal  to  the  eye.  Over  the  princi 
pal  entrance  are  the  Boccarini  arms,  carved  on  a  stone  es 
cutcheon,  supported  by  two  angels,  the  whole  so  moss- 
eaten  the  details  cannot  be  traced.  Above  is  a  marquis's 
coronet  in  which  a  swallow  has  built  its  nest.  Both  in 
and  out  it  is  a  house  where  poverty  has  set  its  seal.  The 
family  is  dying  out.  When  Marchesa  Boccarini  dies,  the 
palace  will  be  sold,  and  the  money  divided  among  her 
daughters. 

As  dusk  was  settling  into  night  a  carriage  rattled  along 
the  deserted  street.  The  horses — a  pair  of  splendid  bays 
— struck  sparks  out  of  the  granite  pavement.  With  a 
bang  they  draw  up  at  the  entrance,  under  an  archway, 
guarded  by  a  grille  of  nisty  iron.  A  bell  is  rung;  it 
only  echoes  through  the  gloomy  court.  The  bell  was  rung 
again,  but  no  one  came.  At  last  steps  were  heard,  and  a 


NERA.  289 

dried-up  old  man,  with  a  face  like  parchment,  and  little 
ferret  eyes,  appeared,  hastily  dragging  his  arms  into  a  coat 
much  too  large  for  him. 

He  shuffled  to  the  front  and  bowed.  Taking  a  key 
from  his  pocket  he  unlocked  the  iron  gates,  then  planted 
himself  on  the  threshold,  and  turned  his  ear  toward  the 
well-appointed  brougham,  and  Count  Nobili  seated  within. 

"  Do  the  ladies  receive  ?  "  Nobili  called  out.  The  old 
man  nodded,  bringing  his  best  ear  and  ferret  eyes  to  bear 
upon  him. 

"  Yes,  the  ladies  do  receive.  Will  the  excellency  de 
scend  ?  " 

Count  Nobili  jumped  out  and  hurried  through  the  arch 
way  into  a  court  surrounded  by  a  colonnade. 

It  is  very  dark.  The  palace  rises  upward  four  lofty 
stories.  Above  is  a  square  patch  of  sky,  on  which  a  star 
trembles.  The  court  is  full  of  damp,  unwholesome  odors. 
The  foot  slips  upon  the  slimy  pavement.  Nobili  stopped. 
The  old  man  came  limping  after,  buttoning  his  coat  to 
gether. 

"  Ah !  poor  me ! — The  excellency  is  young  ! "  He 
spoke  in  the  odd,  muffled  voice,  peculiar  to  the  deaf. 
"The  excellency  goes  so  fast  he  will  fall  if  he  does  not 
mind.  Our  court-yard  is  very  damp  ;  the  stairs  are  old." 

"  Which  is  the  way  up-stairs  ?  "  Nobili  asked,  impa 
tiently.  "  It  is  so  dark  I  have  forgotten  the  turn." 

"  Here,  excellency — here  to  the  right.  By  the  Madon 
na  there,  in  the  niche,  with  the  light  before  it.  A  thousand 
excuses !  The  excellency  will  excuse  me,  but  I  have  not 
yet  lit  the  lamp  on  the  stairs.  I  was  resting.  There  are 
so  many  visitors  to  the  Signora  Marchesa.  The  excellency 
will  not  tell  the  Signora  Marchesa  that  it  was  dark  upon 
the  stairs  ?  Per  pieta ! " 

The  shriveled  old  man  placed  himself  full  in  Nobili's 
path,  and  held  out  his  hands  like  claws  entreatingly. 
13 


290  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  A  thousand  devils !  no,"  was  Nobili's  irate  reply, 
pushing  him  back.  "  Let  me  go  up ;  I  shall  say  nothing. 
Cospetto !  What  is  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  Thanks !  thanks !  The  excellency  is  full  of  mercy  to 
an  old,  overworked  servant.  There  was  a  time  when  the 
Boccarini — " 

Nobili  did  not  wait  to  hear  more,  but  strode  through 
the  darkness  at  hazard,  to  find  the  stairs. 

"  Stop !  stop !  the  excellency  will  break  his  limbs  against 
the  wall ! "  the  old  man  shouted. 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  out  some  matches. 
He  struck  one  against  the  wall,  held  it  above  his  head,  and 
pointed  with  his  bony  finger  to  a  broad  stone  stair  under 
an  inner  arch. 

Nobili  ascended  rapidly ;  he  was  in  no  mood  for  delay. 
The  old  man,  standing  at  the  foot,  struck  match  after  match 
to  light  him. 

"Above,  excellency,  you  will  find  our  usual  lamps. 
You  must  go  on  to  the  second  story." 

On  the  landing  at  the  first  floor  there  was  still  a  little 
daylight  from  a  window  as  big  as  if  set  in  the  tribune  of 
a  cathedral.  Here  a  lamp  was  placed  on  an  old  painted 
table.  Some  moth-eaten  tapestry  hung  from  a  mildewed 
wall.  Here  and  there  a  rusty  nail  had  given  way,  and  the 
stuff  fell  in  downward  folds.  Nobili  paused.  His  head 
was  hot  and  dizzy.  He  had  dined  well,  and  he  had  drunk 
freely.  His  eyes  traveled  upward  to  the  old  tapestry — (it 
was  the  daughter  of  Herodias  dancing  before  Herod  the 
cancan  of  the  day).  Something  in  the  face  and  figure  of 
the  girl  recalled  Nera  to  him,  or  he  fancied  it — his  mind 
being  full  of  her.  Nobili  envied  Herod  in  a  dreamy  way, 
who,  with  round,  leaden  eyes,  a  crown  upon  his  head — 
watched  the  dancing  girl  as  she  flung  about  her  lissome 
limbs.  Nobili  envied  Herod — and  the  thought  came  across 
him,  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  sit  royally  enthroned, 


NEKA.  291 

and  see  Nera  gambol  so !  From  tbat — quicker  than  I  can 
write  it — his  thoughts  traveled  backward  to  that  night  when 
he  had  danced  with  Nera  at  the  Orsetti  ball.  Again  the 
refrain  of  that  waltz  buzzed  in  his  ear.  Again  the  meas 
ure  rose  and  fell  in  floads  of  luscious  sweetness — again 
Nera  lay  within  his  arms — her  breath  was  on  his  cheek — 
the  perfume  of  the  flowers  in  her  flossy  hair  was  wafted  in 
the  air — the  blood  stirred  in  his  veins. 

The  old  man  said  truly.  All  the  way  up  the  second 
stair  was  lit  by  little  lamps,  fed  by  mouldy  oil ;  and  all  the 
way  up  that  waltz  rang  in  Nobili's  ear.  It  mounted  to  his 
brain  like  fumes  of  new  wine  tapped  from  the  skin.  A 
green  door  of  faded  baize  faced  him  on  the  upper  landing, 
and  another  bell — a  red  tassel  fastened  to  a  bit  of  whip 
cord.  He  rang  it  hastily.  This  time  a  servant  came 
promptly.  He  carried  in  his  hand  a  lamp  of  brass. 

"  Did  the  ladies  receive  ?  " 

"  They  did,"  was  the  answer  ;  and  the  servant  held  the 
lamp  aloft  to  light  Nobili  into  the  anteroom. 

This  anteroom  was  as  naked  as  a  barrack.  The  walls 
were  painted  in  a  Raphaelesque  pattern,  the  coronet  and 
arms  of  the  Boccarini  in  the  centre. 

Count  Nobili  and  the  servant  passed  through  many 
lofty  rooms  of  faded  splendor.  Chandeliers  hung  from 
vaulted  ceilings,  and  reflected  the  light  of  the  brass  lamp 
on  a  thousand  crystal  facets.  The  tall  mirrors  in  the  an 
tique  frames  repeated  it.  In  a  cavern-like  saloon,  hung 
with  rows  of  dark  pictures  upon  amber  satin,  Nobili  and 
the  servant  stopped  before  a  door.  The  servant  knocked. 
A  voice  said,  "  Enter."  It  was  the  voice  of  Marchesa  Boc 
carini.  She  was  sitting  with  her  three  daughters.  A  lamp, 
with  a  colored  shade,  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  small  room, 
bearing  some  aspect  of  life  and  comfort.  The  marchesa 
and  two  of  her  daughters  were  working  at  some  mysteri 
ous  garments,  which  rapidly  vanished  out  of  sight.  Nera 


292  THE  ITALIANS. 

was  leaning  back  on  a  sofa,  superbly  idle — staring  idly  at 
an  opposite  window,  where  the  daylight  still  lingered. 
When  Count  Nobili  was  announced,  they  all  rose  and  spoke 
together  with  the  loud  peacock  voices,  and  the  rapid  utter 
ance,  which  in  Italy  are  supposed  to  mark  a  special  wel 
come.  Strange  that  in  the  land  of  song  the  talking  voices 
of  women  should  be  so  harsh  and  strident !  Yet  so  it  is. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  we  have  seen  you,  Count  No 
bili?"  It  was  the  sad-faced  marchesa  who  spoke,  and 
tried  to  smile  a  welcome  to  him.  "I  have  to  thank  you 
for  many  inquiries,  and  all  sorts  of  luxuries  sent  to  my  dear 
child.  But  we  expected  you.  You  never  came." 

The  two  sisters  echoed,  "  You  never  came." 

Nera  did  not  speak  then,  but  when  they  had  finished, 
she  rose  from  the  sofa  and  stood  before  Nobili  drawn  up 
to  her  full  height,  radiant  in  sovereign  beauty.  "  I  have 
to  thank  you  most."  As  Nera  spoke,  her  cheeks  flushed, 
and  she  dropped  her  hand  into  his.  It  was  a  simple  act, 
but  full  of  purpose  as  Nera  did  it.  Nera  intended  it  should 
be  so.  She  reseated  herself.  As  his  eye  met  hers,  Nobili 
grew  crimson.  The  twilight  and  the  shaded  lamp  hid  this 
in  part,  but  Nera  observed  it,  and  noted  it  for  future  use. 

Count  Nobili  placed  himself  beside  the  marchesa. 

"  I  am  overwhelmed  with  shame,"  he  said.  "  What 
you  say  is  too  true.  I  had  intended  coming.  Indeed,  I 
waited  until  your  daughter  " — and  he  glanced1  at  Nera — 
"  could  receive  me,  and  satisfy  me  herself  she  was  not  hurt. 
I  longed  to  make  my  penitent  excuses  for  the  accident." 

"  Oh  !  it  was  nothing,"  said  Nera,  with  a  smile,  answer 
ing  for  her  mother. 

"  What  I  suffered,  no  words  can  tell,"  continued  Nobili. 
"  Even  now  I  shudder  to  think  of  it — to  be  the  cause — " 

"  No,  not  the  cause,"  answered  Marchesa  Boccarini. 

The  elder  sisters  echoed — 

"  Not  the  cause." 


NERA.  293 

"  It  was  the  ribbon,"  continued  the  marchesa.  "  Nera 
was  entangled  with  the  ribbon  when  she  rose ;  she  did  not 
know  it." 

"  I  ought  to  have  held  her  up,"  returned  Nobili  with  a 
glance  at  Nera,  who,  with  a  kind  of  queenly  calm,  looked 
him  full  in  the  face  with  her  bold,  black  eyes. 

"  I  assure  you,  marchesa,  it  was  the  horror  of  what  I 
had  done  that  kept  me  from  calling  on  you." 

This  was  not  true,  and  Nera  knew  it  was  not  true. 
Nobili  had  not  come,  because  he  dreaded  his  weakness  and 
her  power.  Nobili  had  not  come,  because  he  doted  on  Enrica 
to  that  excess,  a  thought  alien  to  her  seemed  then  to  him 
a  crime.  What  folly  !  Now  he  knew  Enrica  better !  All 
that  was  changed. 

"  We  have  felt  very  grateful,"  went  on  to  say  the  rnar- 
chesa,  "  I  assure  you,  Count  Nobili,  very  grateful." 

The  poor  lady  was  much  exercised  in  spirit  as  to  how 
she  could  frame  an  available  excuse  for  leaving  the  count 
alone  with  Nera.  Had  she  only  known  beforehand,  she 
would  have  arranged  a  little  plan  to  do  so,  naturally.  But 
it  must  be  done,  she  knew.  It  must  be  done  at  any  price, 
or  Nera  would  never  forgive  her. 

"  You  have  been  so  agreeably  occupied,  too,"  Nera  said, 
in  a  firm,  full  voice.  "  No  wonder,  Count  Nobili,  you  had 
no  time  to  visit  us." 

There  was  a  mute  reproach  in  these  few  words  that 
made  Nobili  wince. 

"  I  have  been  absent,"  he  replied,  much  confused. 

"  Yes,  absent  in  mind  and  body,"  and  Nera  laughed  a 
cruel  little  laugh.  "  You  have  been  at  Corellia,  I  believe  ?" 
she  added,  significantly,  fixing  him  with  her  lustrous 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  at  Corellia,  shooting."  Nobili  shrank 
from  shame  at  the  lack  of  courtesy  on  his-  part  which  had 
made  these  social  lies  needful.  How  brilliant  Nera  was ! 


294  THE  ITALIANS. 

A  type  of  perfect  womanhood.  Fresh,  and  strong,  and 
healthy — a  mother  for  heroes. 

"  We  have  heard  of  you,"  went  on  Nera,  throwing  her 
grand  head  backward,  a  quiet  deliberation  in  each  word,  as 
if  she  were  dropping  them  out,  word  by  word,  like  poison. 
"  A  case  of  Perseus  and  Andromeda,  only  you  rescued  the 
lady  from  the  flames.  You  half  killed  me,  Count  Nobili, 
and  en  revanche  you  have  saved  another  lady.  She  must 
be  very  grateful." 

"  O  Nera  ! "  one  of  her  sisters  exclaimed,  reproachfully. 
These  innocent  sisters  never  could  accommodate  themselves 
to  Nera's  caustic  tongue. 

Nera  gave  her  sister  a  look.  She  rose  at  once ;  then 
the  other  sister  rose  also.  They  both  slipped  out  of  the 
room. 

"  Now,"  thought  the  marchesa,  "  I  must  go,  too." 

"  May  I  be  permitted,"  she  said,  rising,  "  before  I  leave 
the  room  to  speak  to  my  confessor,  who  is  waiting  for  me, 
on  a  matter  of  business  " — this  was  an  excellent  sham,  and 
sounded  decorous  and  natural — "  may  I  be  permitted, 
Count  Nobili,  to  congratulate  you  on  your  approaching 
marriage  ?  I  do  not  know  Enrica  Guinigi,  but  I  hear  that 
she  is  lovely." 

Nobili  bowed  with  evident  constraint. 

"  And  I,"  said  Nera,  softly,  directing  a  broadside  upon 
him  from  her  brilliant  eyes — "allow  me  to  congratulate 
you  also." 

"  Thank  you,"  murmured  Nobili,  scarcely  able  to  form 
the  words. 

"  Excuse  me,"  the  marchesa  said.  She  courtesied  to 
Nobili  and  left  the  room. 

Nobili  and  Nera  were  now  alone.  Nobili  watched  her 
under  his  eyelids.  Yes,  she  was  splendid.  A  luxuriant 
form,  a  skin  mellow  and  ruddy  as  a  ripe  peach,  and  such 
eyes! 


NERA.  295 

Nera  was  silent.  She  guessed  his  thoughts.  She  knew 
men  so  well.  Men  had  been  her  special  study.  Nera  was 
only  twenty-four,  but  she  was  clever,  and  would  have  ex 
celled  in  any  thing  she  pleased.  To  draw  men  to  her,  as 
the  magnet  draws  the  needle,  was  the  passion  of  her  life  ; 
whether  she  cared  for  them  or  not,  to  draw  them.  Not  to 
succeed  argued  a  want  of  skill.  That  maddened  her.  She 
was  keen  and  hot  upon  the  scent,  knocking  over  her  man 
as  a  sportsman  does  his  bird,  full  in  the  breast.  Her  aim 
was  marriage.  Count  Nobili  would  have  suited  her  exactly. 
She  had  felt  for  him  a  warmth  that  rarely  quickened  her 
pulses.  Nobili  had  evaded  her.  But  revenge  is  sweet. 
Now  his  hour  is  come. 

"  Count  Nobili " — Nera's  tempting  looks  spoke  more 
than  words — "  come  and  sit  down  by  me."  She  signed  to 
him  to  place  himself  upon  the  sofa. 

Nobili  rose  as  she  bade  him.  He  came  upon  his  fate 
without  a  word.  Seated  so  near  to  Nera,  he  gazed  into  her 
starry  eyes,  and  felt  it  did  him  good. 

"  You  look  ill,"  Nera  said,  tuning  her  voice  to  a  tone  of 
tender  pity ;  "  you  have  grown  older  too  since  I  last  saw 
you.  Is  it  love,  or  grief,  or  jealousy,  or  what  ?  " 

Nobili  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  His  hand,  which  rested 
near  hers,  slipped  forward,  and  touched  her  fingers.  Nera 
withdrew  them  to  smooth  the  braids  of  her  glossy  hair. 
While  she  did  so  she  scanned  Nobili  closely.  "  You 
are  not  a  triumphant  lover,  certainly.  What  is  the  mat 
ter  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  good  to  care,"  answered  Nobili,  sighing 
again,  gazing  into  her  face  ;  "  once  I  thought  that  my  fate 
did  touch  you." 

"  Yes,  once,"  Nera  rejoined.  "  Once — long  ago."  She 
gave  an  airy  laugh  that  grated  on  Nobili's  ears.  "  But  we 
meet  so  seldom." 

"True,  true,"  he  answered  hurriedly,  "too   seldom." 


296  THE   ITALIANS. 

His  manner  was  most  constrained.     It  was  plain  his  mind 
was  running  upon  some  unspoken  thought. 

"  Yes,"  Nera  said.  "  Spite  of  your  absence,  however 
you  make  yourself  remembered.  You  give  us  so  much  to 
talk  of !  Such  a  succession  of  surprises  !  " 

One  by  one  Nera's  phrases  dropped  out,  suggesting  so 
much  behind. 

Nobili,  greatly  excited,  felt  he  must  speak  or  flee. 

"  I  must  confess,"  she  added,  giving  a  stealthy  glance 
out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  "  you  have  surprised  me. 
When  do  you  bring  your  wife  home,  Count  Nobili  ?  "  As 
Nera  asked  this  question  she  bent  over  Nobili,  so  that  her 
breath  just  swept  his  heated  cheek. 

"  Never,  perhaps !  "  cried  Nobili,  wildly.  He  could 
contain  himself  no  longer.  His  heart  beat  almost  to  burst 
ing.  A  desperate  seduction  was  stealing  over  him.  "  Nev 
er,  perhaps  1 "  he  repeated. 

Nera  gave  a  little  start;  then  she  drew  back  and 
leaned  against  the  sofa,  gazing  at  him. 

"  I  am  come  to  you,  Nera  " — Nobili  spoke  in  a  hoarse 
voice — his  features  worked  with  agitation — "  I  am  come  to 
tell  you  all ;  to  ask  you  what  I  shall  do.  I  am  distracted, 
heart-broken,  degraded  I  Nera,  dear  Nera,  will  you  help 
me  ?  In  mercy  say  you  will !  " 

He  had  grasped  her  hand — he  was  covering  it  with  hot 
kisses.  He  was  so  heated  with  wine  and  beauty,  and  a 
sense  of  wrong,  he  had  lost  all  self-command. 

Nera  did  not  withdraw  her  hand.  Her  eyelids  dropped, 
and  she  replied,  softly : 

"Help  you?  Oh!  so  willingly.  Could  you  see  my 
heart  you  would  understand  me." 

She  stopped. 

"  You  can  make  all  right,"  urged  Nobili,  maddened  by 
her  seductions. 

Again  that  waltz  was  buzzing  in  his  ears.     Nobili  was 


NERA.  297 

about  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  and  ask  her  he  knew  not 
what,  when  Nera  rose,  and  seated  herself  upon  a  chair 
opposite  to  him. 

"  You  leave  me,"  cried  Nobili,  piteously,  seizing  her 
dress.  "  That  is  not  helping  me." 

"  I  must  know  what  you  want,"  she  answered,  settling 
the  folds  of  her  dress  about  her.  "  Of  course,  in  making 
this  marriage,  you  have  weighed  all  the  consequences  ?  I 
take  that  for  granted." 

As  Nera  spoke  she  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand;  the 
rich  beauty  of  her  face  was  brought  under  the  lamp's  full 
light. 

"I  thought  I  had,"  was  Nobili's  reply,  recalled  by  her 
movement  to  himself,  and  speaking  with  more  composure — 
"  I  thought  I  had — but  within  the  last  three  hours  every 
thing  is  changed.  I  have  been  insulted  at  the  club." 

"  Ah  ! — you  must  expect  that  sort  of  thing  if  you  marry 
Enrica  Guinigi.  That  is  inevitable." 

Nobili  knit  his  brows.     This  was  hard  from  her. 

"  What  reason  do  you  give  for  this  ?  "  he  asked,  trying 
to  master  his  feelings.  "  I  came  to  ask  you  this." 

"  Reason,  my  dear  count  ?  "  and  a  smile  parted  Nera's 
lips.  "  A  very  obvious  reason.  Why  force  me  to  name 
it?  No  one  can  respect  you  if  you  make  such  a  marriage. 
You  will  be  always  liked — you  are  so  charming."  She 
paused  to  fling  an  amorous  glance  upon  him.  "  Why  did 
you  select  the  Guinigi  girl  ?  "  The  question  was  sharply 
put.  "  The  marchesa  would  never  receive  you.  Why 
choose  her  niece  ?  " 

"  Because  I  liked  her."  Nobili  was  driven  to  bay.  "  A 
man  chooses  the  woman  he  likes." 

"  How  strange  ! "  exclaimed  Nera,  throwing  up  her 
hands.  "  How  strange ! — A  pale-faced  school-girl !  But 
— ha  !  ha ! " — (that  discordant  laugh  almost  betrayed  her) 
— "  she  is  not  so,  it  seems." 


298  THE   ITALIANS. 

Nobili  changed  color.  With  every  word  Nera  uttered, 
he  grew  hot  or  cold,  soothed  or  wild,  by  turns.  Nera 
watched  it  all.  She  read  Nobili  like  a  book. 

"  How  cunning  Enrica  Guinigi  must  be ! — very  cun 
ning  ! "  Nera  repeated  as  if  the  idea  had  just  struck  her. 
"  The  marchesa's  tool ! — They  are  so  poor ! — Her  niece  ! 
Ch6  vuole ! — The  family  blood !  Anyhow,  Enrica  has 
caught  you,  Nobili." 

Nera  leaned  back,  drew  out  a  fan  from  behind  a  cush 
ion,  and  swayed  it  to  and  fro. 

"  Not  yet,"  gasped  Nobili—"  not  yet." 

And  Nobili  had  listened  to  Nera's  cruel  words,  and  had 
not  risen  up  and  torn  out  the  lying  tongue  that  uttered 
them !  He  had  sat  and  heard  Enrica  torn  to  pieces  as  a 
panting  dove  is  severed  by  a  hawk  limb  by  limb  !  Even 
now  Nobili's  better  nature,  spite  of  the  glamour  of  this 
woman,  told  him  he  was  a  coward  to  listen  to  such  words, 
but  his  good  angel  had  veiled  her  wings  and  fled. 

"  I  am  glad  you  say  '  not  yet.'  I  hope  you  will  take 
time  to  consider.  If  I  can  help  you,  you  may  command 
me,  Count  Nobili."  And  Nera  paused  and  sighed. 

"  Help  me,  Nera  ! — You  can  save  me ! "  He  started  to 
his  feet.  "  I  am  so  wretched — so  wounded — so  desper 
ate  ! " 

"  Sit  down,"  she  answered,  pointing  to  the  sofa. 

Mechanically  he  obeyed. 

"  You  are  nothing  of  all  this  if  you  do  not  marry  En 
rica  Guinigi ;  if  you  do,  you  are  all  you  say." 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  exclaimed  Nobili.  "I  have 
signed  the  contract." 

"  Break  it " — Nera  spoke  the  words  boldly  out — "  break 
it,  or  you  will  be  dishonored.  Do  you  think  you  can  live 
in  Lucca  with  a  wife  that  you  have  bought  ?  " 

Nobili  bounded  from  his  chair. 

"  O  God ! "  he  said,  and  clinched  his  hands. 


NERA.  299 

"  You  must  be  calm,"  she  said,  hastily,  "  or  my  mother 
will  hear  you."  (All  she  can  do,  she  thinks,  is  not  worse 
than  Nobili  deserves,  after  that  ball.)  "  Bought ! — Yes. 
Will  any  one  believe  the  marchesa  would  have  given  her 
niece  to  you  otherwise  ?  " 

Nobili  was  pale  and  silent  now.  Nera's  words  had 
called  up  long  trains  of  thought,  opening  out  into  horrible 
vistas.  There  was  a  dreadful  logic  about  all  she  said  that 
brought  instant  conviction  with  it.  All  the  blood  within 
him  seemed  whirling  in  his  brain. 

"But  Nera,  how  can  I — in  honor — break  this  mar 
riage  ?  "  he  urged. 

"  Break  it !  well,  by  going  away.  No  one  can  force  you 
to  marry  a  girl  who  allowed  herself  to  be  hawked  about 
here  and  there — offered  to  Marescotti,  and  refused — to 
others  probably." 

"  She  may  not  have  known  it,"  said  Nobili,  roused  by 
her  bitter  words. 

"  Oh,  folly !  Why  come  to  me,  Count  Nobili  ?  You 
are  still  in  love  with  her." 

At  these  words  Nobili  rose  and  approached  Nera. 
Something  in  her  expression  checked  him ;  he  drew  back. 
With  all  her  allurements,  there  was  a  gulf  between  them 
Nobili  dared  not  pass. 

"  O  Nera !  do  not  drive  me  mad  !  Help  me,  or  ban 
ish  me." 

"  I  am  helping  you,"  she  replied,  with  what  seemed 
passionate  earnestness.  "Have  you  seen.the  sonnet?" 

"No." 

"  If  you  mean  to  marry  her,  do  not.  Take  advice.  My 
mother  has  seen  it,"  Nera  added,  with  well-simulated  hor 
ror.  "  She  would  not  let  me  read  it." 

Now  this  was  the  sheerest  malice.  Madame  Boccarini 
had  never  seen  the  sonnet.  But  if  she  had,  there  was  not 


300  THE   ITALIANS. 

one  word  in  the  sonnet  that  might  not  have  been  addressed 
to  the  Blessed  Virgin  herself. 

"  No,  I  will  not  see  the  sonnet,"  said  Nobili,  firmly. 
"  Not  that  I  will  marry  her,  but  because  I  do  not  choose 
to  see  the  woman  I  loved  befouled.  If  it  is  what  you  say 
— and  I  believe  you  implicitly — let  it  lie  like  other  dirt,  I 
will  not  stir  it." 

"  A  generous  fellow  !  "  thought  Nera.  "  How  I  could 
have  loved  him  !  But  not  now,  not  now." 

"  You  have  been  the  object  of  a  base  fraud,"  continued 
Nera.  Nera  would  follow  to  the  end  artistically ;  not 
leave  her  work  half  done. 

"  She  has  deceived  me.  I  know  she  has  deceived  me," 
cried  Nobili,  with  a  pang  he  could  not  hide.  "  She  has  de 
ceived  me,  and  I  loved  her  ! " 

His  voice  sounded  like  the  cry  of  a  hunted  animal. 

Nera  did  not  like  this.  Her  work  was  not  complete. 
Nobili's  obstinate  clinging  to  Enrica  chafed  her. 

"  Did  Enrica  ever  speak  to  you  of  her  engagement  to 
Count  Marescotti  ?  "  she  asked.  She  grew  impatient,  and 
must  probe  the  wound. 

"  Never,"  he  answered,  shrinking  back. 

"  Heavens  !  What  falseness  !  Why,  she  has  passed 
days  and  days  alone  with  him." 

"  No,  not  alone,"  interrupted  Nobili,  stung  with  a  sense 
of  his  own  shame. 

"  Oh,  you  excuse  her ! "  Nera  laughed  bitterly.  "  Poor 
count,  believe  m.e.  I  tell  you  what  others  conceal." 

Nobili  shuddered.     His  face  grew  black  as  night. 

"  Do  not  see  that  sonnet  if  you  persist  in  marriage.  If 
not,  your  course  is  clear — fly.  If  Enrica  Guinigi  has  the 
smallest  sense  of  decency,  she  cannot  urge  the  marriage." 

And  Nobili  heard  this  in  silence !  Oh,  shame,  and  weak 
ness  and  passion  of  hot  blood;  and  women's  eyes,  and 
cruel,  bitter  tongues ;  and  jealousy,  maddening  jealousy, 


NERA.  301 

hideous,  formless,  vague,  reaching  he  knew  not  whither  1 
Oh,  shame ! 

"  Write  to  her,  and  say  you  have  discovered  that  she 
was  in  league  with  her  aunt,  and  had  other  lovers.  Every 
one  knows  it." 

"  But,  Nera,  if  I  do,  will  you  comfort  me  ?  I  shall  need 
it."  Nobili  opened  both  his  arms.  His  eyes  clung  wildly 
to  hers.  She  was  his  only  hope. 

Nera  did  not  move ;  only  she  turned  her  head  away  to 
hide  her  face  from  him.  She  dared  not  let  Nobili  move 
her.  Poor  Nobili !  She  could  have  loved  him  dearly  ! 

Seeing  her  thus,  Nobili's  arms  dropped  to  his  side  hope 
lessly  ;  a  wan  look  came  over  his  face. 

"  Forgive  me  !  Oh,  forgive  me,  Nera  !  I  ofler  you  a 
broken  heart ;  have  pity  on  me  !  Say,  can  you  love  me, 
Nera  ?  Only  a  little.  Speak !  tell  me ! " 

Nobili  was  on  his  knees  before  her ;  every  feature  of 
his  bright  young  face  formed  into  an  agony  of  entreaty. 

There  was  a  flash  of  triumph  in  Nera's  black  eyes  as 
she  bent  them  on  Nobili,  that  chilled  him  to  the  soul. 
Kneeling  before  her,  he  feels  it.  He  doubts  her  love, 
doubts  all.  She  has  wrought  upon  him  until  he  is  des 
perate. 

"Rise,  dear  Nobili,"  Nera  whispered  softly,  touching 
his  lips  with  hers,  but  so  slightly.  "To-morrow — come 
again  to-morrow.  I  can  say  nothing  now."  Her  manner 
was  constrained.  She  spoke  in  little  sentences.  "  It  is 
late.  Supper  is  ready.  My  mother  waiting.  To-morrow." 
She  pressed  the  hand  he  had  laid  imploringly  upon  her 
knee.  She  touched  the  curls  upon  his  brow  with  her  light 
finger-tips ;  but  those  fixed,  despairing  eyes  beneath  she 
dared  not  meet. 

"  Not  one  word  ?  "  urged  Nobili,  in  a  faltering  voice. 
"  Send  me  away  without  one  word  of  hope  ?  I  shall 
struggle  with  horrible  thoughts  all  night.  O  Nera,  speak 


302  THE  ITALIANS. 

one  word — but  one  ! "  He  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked 
up  into  her  face.  He  dared  do  no  more.  "Love  me  a 
little,  Nera,"  he  pleaded,  and  he  laid  her  warm,  full  hand 
upon  his  throbbing  heart. 

Nera  trembled.  She  rose  hastily  from  her  chair,  and 
raised  Nobili  up  also. 

"I — I — "  (she  hesitated,  and  avoided  his  passionate 
glance) — "  I  have  given  you  good  advice.  To-morrow  I  will 
tell  you  more  about  myself." 

"  To-morrow,  Nera !     Why  not  to-night  ?  " 

Spite  of  himself  Nobili  was  shocked  at  her  reserve. 
She  was  so  self-possessed.  He  had  flung  his  all  upon  the 
die. 

"  You  have  advised  me,"  he  answered,  stung  by  her 
coldness.  "  You  have  convinced  me.  I  shall  obey  you. 
Now  I  must  go,  unless  you  bid  me  stay." 

Again  his  eyes  pleaded  with  hers  ;  again  found  no  re 
sponse.  Nera  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  To-morrow,"  the  full,  ripe  lips  uttered — "  to-morrow." 

Seeing  that  he  hesitated,  Nera  pointed  with  a  gesture 
toward  the  door,  and  Nobili  departed. 

When  the  door  had  closed,  and  the  sound  of  his  retreat 
ing  footsteps  along  the  empty  rooms  had  ceased,  Nera 
raised  her  hand,  then  let  it  fall  heavily  upon  the  table. 

"  I  have  done  it ! "  she  exclaimed,  triumphantly.  "  Now 
I  can  bear  to  think  of  that  Orsetti  ball.  Poor  Nobili !  if 
he  had  spoken  then !  But  he  did  not.  It  is  his  own 
fault." 

After  standing  a  minute  or  two  thinking,  Nora  uncov 
ered  the  lamp.  Then  she  took  it  up  in  both  her  hands, 
stepped  to  a  mirror  that  hung  near,  and,  turning  the  light 
hither  and  thither,  looked  at  her  blooming  face,  in  full  and 
in  profile.  Then  she  replaced  the  lamp  upon  the  table, 
yawned,  and  left  the  room. 

Next  morning  a  note  was  put  into  Count  Nobili's  hand 


NERA.  303 

at  breakfast.     It  bore  the  Boccarini  arms  and  the  initials 
of  the  marchesa.     The  contents  were  these : 

"  MOST  ESTEEMED  COUNT  :  As  a  friend  of  our  family, 
I  have  the  honor  of  informing  you  that  the  marriage  of  my 
dear  daughter  Nera  with  Prince  Buspoli  is  arranged,  and 
will  take  place  in  a  week.  I  hope  you  will  be  present.  I 
have  the  honor  to  assure  you  of  my  most  sincere  and  dis 
tinguished  sentiments. 

"MAKCIIESA  AGNESA  BOCCAEINI." 

In  the  night  train  from  Lucca  that  evening,  Count  Nobili 
was  seated.  '*  He  was  about  to  travel,"  he  had  informed 
his  household.  "  Later  he  would  send  them  his  address." 
Before  he  left,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Enrica,  and  sent  it  to 
Corellia. 


P  A  E  T    IT. 

CHAPTER  I. 

WAITING   AND   LONGING. 

IT  was  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  since  Count  No- 
bili  had  left  Corellia.  All  had  been  very  quiet  about  the 
house.  The  marchesa  herself  took  little  heed  of  any  thing. 
She  sat  much  in  her  own  room.  She  was  silent  and  pre 
occupied  ;  but  she  was  not  displeased.  The  one  dominant 
passion  of  her  soul — the  triumph  of  the  Guinigi  name — 
was  now  attained.  Now  she  could  bear  to  think  of  the 
grand  old  palace  at  Lucca,  the  seigneurial  throne,  the  nup 
tial-chamber ;  now  she  could  gaze  in  peace  on  the  counte 
nance  of  the  great  Castruccio.  No  spoiler  would  dare  to 
tread  these  sacred  floors.  No  irreverent  hand  would  pre 
sume  to  handle  her  ancestral  treasures ;  no  vulgar  eye 
would  rest  on  the  effigies  of  her  race  gathered  on  these 
walls.  All  would  now  be  safe — safe  under  the  protection  of 
wealth,  enormous  wealth — wealth  to  guard,  to  preserve,  to 
possess. 

Enrica  had  been  the  agent  by  which  all  this  had  been 
effected,  therefore  she  regarded  Enrica  at  this  time  with 
more  consideration  than  she  had  ever  done  before.  As  to 
any  real  sentiments  of  affection,  the  marchesa  was  inca 
pable  of  them — a  cold,  hard  woman  from  her  youth,  now 
vindictive,  as  well  as  cold. 


WAITING  AND  LONGING.  305 

The  day  after  the  signing  of  the  contract  she  called  En- 
rica  to  her.  Enrica  trod  lightly  across  the  stuccoed  floor  to 
where  her  aunt  was  standing ;  then  she  stopped  and  waited 
for  her  to  address  her.  The  marchesa  took  Enrica's  hand 
within  her  own  for  some  minutes,  and  silently  stroked  each 
rosy  finger. 

"  My  child  Enrica,  are  you  content  ?  "  This  question 
was  accompanied  by  an  inquiring  look,  as  if  she  would  read 
Enrica  through  and  through.  A  sweet  smile  of  ineffable 
happiness  stole  over  Enrica's  soft  face.  The  marchesa, 
still  holding  her  hand,  uttered  something  which  might  al 
most  be  called  a  sigh.  "  I  hope  this  will  last,  else — "  She 
broke  off  abruptly. 

Enrica,  resenting  the  implied  doubt,  disengaged  her 
hand,  and  drew  back  from  her.  The  marchesa,  not  appear 
ing  to  observe  this,  continued : 

"  I  had  other  views  for  you,  Enrica ;  but,  before  you 
knew  any  thing,  you  chose  a  husband  for  yourself.  What 
do  you  know  about  a  husband  ?  It  is  a  bad  choice." 

Again  Enrica  drew  back  still  farther  from  her  aunt,  and 
lifted  up  her  head  as  if  in  remonstrance.  But  the  marchesa 
was  not  to  be  stopped. 

"  I  hate  Count  Nobili ! "  she  burst  out.  "  I  have  had 
my  eye  upon  him  ever  since  he  came  to  Lucca.  I  know 
him — you  do  not.  It  is  possible  he  may  change,  but  if 
he  does  not — " 

For  the  second  time  the  marchesa  did  not  finish  the 
sentence. 

"  And  do  you  think  he  loves  you  ?  " 

As  she  asked  this  question  she  seated  herself,  and  con 
templated  Enrica  with  a  cynical  smile. 

"  Yes,  he  loves  me.  It  is  you  who  do  not  know  him !  " 
exclaimed  Enrica.  "  He  is  so  good,  so  generous,  so  true ; 
there  is  no  one  in  the  world  like  him." 

How  pure  Enrica  looked,  pleading  for  her  lover ! — her 


306  THE  ITALIANS. 

face  thrown  out  in  sharp  profile  against  the  dark  wall ;  her 
short  upper  lip  raised  by  her  eager  speech ;  the  dazzling  fair 
ness  of  her  complexion ;  and  her  soft  hair  hanging  loose 
about  her  head  and  neck. 

"  I  think  I  do — I  think  I  know  him  better  than  you  do," 
the  marchesa  answered,  somewhat  absently. 

She  was  struck  by  Enrica's  exceeding  beauty,  which 
seemed  within  the  last  few  days  to  have  suddenly  developed 
and  matured. 

"  The  young  man  appreciates  you,  too,  I  do  not  doubt. 
I  am  told  he  is  a  lover  of  beauty." 

This  was  added  with  a  sneer.     Enrica  grew  crimson. 

"  Well,  well,"  the  marchesa  went  on  to  say,  "  it  is  too 
late  now — the  thing  is  done.  But  remember  I  have  warned 
you.  You  chose  Count  Nobili,  not  I.  Enrica,  I  have  done 
my  duty  to  you  and  to  my  own  name.  Now  go  and  tell 
the  cavaliere  I  want  him." 

The  marchesa  was  always  wanting  the  cavaliere  ;  she 
was  closeted  with  him  for  hours  at  a  time.  These  confer 
ences  all  ended  in  one  conclusion — that  she  was  irretriev 
ably  ruined.  No  one  knew  this  better  than  the  marchesa 
herself;  but  her  haughty  reluctance  either  to  accept  Count 
Nobili's  money,  or  to  give  up  Enrica,  was  the  cause  of  un 
known  distress  to  Trenta. 

Meanwhile  the  prospect  of  the  wedding  had  stirred  up 
every  one  in  the  house  to  a  sort  of  aimless  activity.  Adamo 
strode  about,  his  sad,  lazy  eyes  gazing  nowhere  in  particu 
lar.  Adamo  affected  to  work  hard,  but  in  reality  he  did 
nothing  but  sweep  the  leaves  away  from  the  border  of  the 
fountain,  and  remove  the  debris  caused  by  the  fire.  Then 
he  would  go  down  and  feed  the  dogs,  who,  when  at  home, 
lived  in  a  sort  of  cave  cut  out  of  the  cliff  under  the  tower 
— Argo,  the  long-haired  mastiff,  and  Tootsey,  the  rat-ter 
rier,  and  Juno,  the  lurcher,  and  the  useless  bull-dog,  who 
grinned  horribly — Adamo  fed  them,  then  let  them  out  to 


WAITING  AND  LONGING.  307 

run  at  will  over  the  flowers,  while  he  went  to  his  mid-day 
meal. 

Adamo  had  no  soul  for  flowers,  or  he  could  not  have 
done  this ;  he  could  not  have  seen  a  bright,  many-eyed  bal 
sam,  or  an  amber-leaved  zinnia  with  tufted  yellow  breast,  die 
miserably  on  their  earthy  beds,  trampled  under  the  dogs' 
feet.  Even  the  marchesa,  who  concerned  herself  so  little 
with  such  things,  had  often  chidden  him  for  his  carelessness  ; 
but  Adamo  had  a  way  of  his  own,  and  by  that  way  he  abided, 
slowly  returning  to  it,  spite  of  argument  or  remonstrance. 

"  Dornine  Dio  orders  the  weather,  not  I,"  Adamo  said 
in  a  grunt  to  Pipa  when  his  mistress  had  specially  up 
braided  him  for  not  watering  the  lemon-trees  ranged  along 
the  terraces.  "  Am  I  expected  to  give  holy  oil  to  the 
plants  as  Fra  Pacifico  does  to  the  sick  ?  Che !  ch6  !  what 
will  be  will  be ! " 

So  Adamo  went  to  his  dinner  in  all  peace  ;  and  Argo 
and  his  friends  knocked  down  the  flowers,  and  scratched 
deep  holes  in  the  gravel,  barking  wildly  all  the  time. 

The  marchesa,  sitting  in  grave  confabulation  with  Cava- 
liere  Trenta,  rubbed  her  white  hands  as  she  listened. 

There  was  neither  portcullis,  nor  moat,  nor  drawbridge 
to  her  feudal  stronghold  at  Corellia,  but  there  was  big, 
white  Argo.  Argo  alone  would  pin  any  one  to  the  earth. 

"  Let  out  the  dogs,  Adamo,"  the  marchesa  would  say. 
"  I  like  to  hear  them.  They  are  my  soldiers — they  defend 
me." 

"  Yes,  padrona,"  Adamo  would  reply,  stolidly.  "  Surely 
the  Signora  Marchesa  wants  no  other.  Argo  has  the  sense 
of  a  man  when  I  discourse  to  him." 

So  Argo  barked  and  yelped,  and  tore  up  and  down  un 
disturbed,  followed  by  the  pack  in  full  chase  after  imagi 
nary  enemies.  Woe  betide  the  calves  of  any  stranger  ar 
riving  at  that  period  of  the  day  at  the  villa  !  They  might 
feel  Argo's  glistening  teeth  meeting  in  them,  or  be  hurled 


308  THE  ITALIANS. 

on  the  ground,  for  Argo  had  a  nasty  trick  of  clutching 
stealthily  from  behind.  Woe  betide  all  but  Fra  Pacifico, 
who  had  so  often  licked  him  in  drawn  battles,  when  the  dog 
had  leaped  upon  him,  that  now  Argo  fled  at  sight  of  his 
priestly  garments  with  a  howl  I 

Adamo,  who,  after  his  mid-day  meal,  required  tobacco 
and  repose,  would  not  move  to  save  any  one's  soul,  much 
less  his  body. 

"Argo  is  a  lunatic  without  me,"  he  would  observe, 
blandly,  to  Pipa,  if  roused  by  a  special  outburst  of  barking, 
the  smoke  of  his  pipe  curling  round  his  bullet-head  the 
while.  "  Lunatics,  either  among  men  or  beasts,  are  not 
worth  attending  to.  A  sweating  horse,  a  crying  woman, 
and  a  yelping  cur,  heed  not." 

Adamo  added  many  more  grave  remarks  between  the 
puffs  of  his  pipe,  turning  to  Pipa,  who  sat  beside  him,  dis 
taff  in  hand,  the  silver  pins,  stuck  into  her  glossy  plaits, 
glistening  in  the  sun. 

When  Adamo  ceased  he  nodded  his  head  like  an  oracle 
that  had  spoken,  and  dozed,  leaning  against  the  wall,  until 
the  sun  had  sunk  to  rest  into  a  bed  of  orange  and  saffron, 
and  the  air  was  cooled  by  evening  dews.  Not  till  then  did 
Adamo  rise  up  to  work. 

Pipa,  who,  next  to  Adamo  and  the  marchesa,  loved  En- 
rica  with  all  the  strength  of  her  warm  heart,  sings  all  day 
those  unwritten  songs  of  Tuscany  that  rise  and  fall  with 
such  spontaneous  cadence  among  the  vineyards,  and  in  the 
olive-grounds,  that  they  seem  bred  in  the  air — Pipa  sings 
all  day  for  gladness  that  the  signorina  is  going  to  marry  a 
rich  and  handsome  gentleman.  Marriage,  to  Pipa's  simple 
mind — especially  marriage  with  money — must  bring  certain 
blessings,  and  crowds  of  children  ;  she  would  as  soon  doubt 
the  seven  wounds  of  the  Madonna  as  doubt  this.  Pipa  has 
seen  Count  Nobili.  She  approves  of  him.  His  curly  au 
burn  hair,  so  short  and  crisp ;  his  bold  look  and  gracious 


WAITING  AND  LONGING.  309 

smile — not  to  speak  of  certain  notes  he  slipped  into  her 
hand — have  quite  conquered  her.  Besides,  had  Count  No- 
bili  not  come  down,  the  noble  gentleman,  like  San  Michele, 
with  golden  wings  behind  him,  and  a  terrible  lance  in  his 
hand,  as  set  forth  in  a  dingy  fresco  in  the  church  at  Corel- 
lia — come  down  and  rescued  the  dear  signorina  when — oh, 
horrible  ! — she  had  been  forgotten  in  the  burning  tower  ? 
Pipa's  joy  develops  itself  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  clean  the 
entire  villa.  With  characteristic  discernment,  she  has  be 
gun  her  labors  in  the  upper  story,  which,  being  unfurnished 
no  one  ever  enters.  Pipa  has  set  open  all  the  windows, 
and  thrown  back  all  the  blinds ;  Pipa  sweeps  and  sprinkles, 
and  sweeps  again,  combating  with  dust,  and  fleas  and  in 
sects  innumerable,  grown  bold  by  a  quiet  tenancy  of  nearly 
fifty  years.  While  she  sweeps,  Pipa  sings : 

"  I'll  build  a  house  round,  round,,quite  round, 

For  us  to  live  at  ease,  all  three ; 
Father  and  mother  there  shall  dwell, 
And  my  true  love  with  me." 

Poor  Pipa  1  It  is  so  pleasant  to  hear  her  clear  voice 
caroling  overhead  like  a  bird  from  the  open  window,  and 
to  see  her  bright  face  looking  out  now  and  then,  her  gold 
ear-rings  bobbing  to  and  fro — her  black  rippling  hair,  and 
her  merry  eyes  blinded  with  dust  and  flue — to  swallow  a 
breath  of  air.  Adamo  does  not  work,  but  Pipa  does.  If 
she  goes  on  like  this,  Pipa  may  hope  to  clean  the  entire 
floor  in  a  month ;  of  the  great  sala  below,  and  the  other 
rooms  where  people  live,  Pipa  does  not  think.  It  is  not 
her  way  to  think ;  she  lives  by  happy,  rosy  instinct. 

Pipa  chatters  much  to  Enrica  about  Count  Nobili  and 
her  marriage  when  she  is  not  sweeping  or  spinning.  En 
rica  continually  catches  sight  of  her  staring  at  her  with 
open  mouth  and  curious  eyes,  her  head  a  little  on  one  side 
the  better  to  observe  her. 


310  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  Sweet  innocent !  she  knows  nothing  that  is  coming 
on  her,"  Pipa  is  thinking ;  and  then  Pipa  winks,  and  laughs 
outright — laughs  to  the  empty  walls,  which  echo  the  laugh 
back  with  a  hollow  sound. 

But  if  any  thing  lurks  there  that  mocks  Pipa's  mirth,  it 
is  not  visible  to  Pipa's  outward  eye,  so  she  continues  ad 
dressing  herself  to  Enrica,  who  is  utterly  bewildered  by 
her  strange  ways. 

Pipa  cannot  bear  to  think  that  Enrica  never  dressed  for 
her  betrothed.  "  Poverina !  "  she  says  to  her,  "  not  dress — 
not  dress !  What  degradation !  Why,  when  the  Gobbina 
— a  little  starved  hump-backed  bastard — married  the  blind 
beggar  Gianni  at  Corellia,  for  the  sake  of  the  pence  he  got 
sitting  all  day  shaking  his  box  by  the  cafe — even  the  Gob 
bina  had  a  white  dress  and  a  wreath — and  you,  beloved 
lady,  not  so  much  as  to  care  to  change  your  clothes !  What 
must  the  Signore  Conte  have  thought  ?  Misera  mia  !  We 
must  all  seem  pagans  to  him ! "  And  Pipa's  heart  smote 
her  sorely,  remembering  the  notes.  "  Caro  Gesu !  When 
you  are  to  be  married  we  must  find  you  something  to  wear. 
To  be  sure,  the  marchesa's  luggage  was  chiefly  burnt  in 
the  fire,  but  one  box  is  left.  Out  of  that  box  something 
will  come,"  Pipa  feels  sure  (miracles  are  nothing  to  Pipa, 
who  believes  in  pilgrimages  and  the  evil-eye) ;  she  feels 
sure  that  it  will  be  so.  After  much  talk  with  Enrica,  who 
only  answers  her  with  a  smile,  and  says  absently,  looking 
at  the  mountains  which  she  does  not  see — 

"  Dear  Pipa,  we  will  look  in  the  box,  as  you  say." 

"  But  when,  signorina  ? "  insists  Pipa,  and  she  kisses 
Enrica's  hand,  and  strokes  her  dress.  "  But  when  ?  " 

"To-morrow,"  says  Enrica,  absently.  "To-morrow, 
dear  Pipa,  not  to-day." 

"  Holy  mother !  "  is  Pipa's  reply,  "  it  has  been  '  to-mor 
row  '  for  four  days."  "  Always  to-morrow,"  mutters  Pipa  to 
herself,  as  she  makes  the  dust  fly  with  her  broom ;  "  and 


WAITING  AND  LONGING.  311 

the  Siguore  Conte  is  to  return  in  a  week !  Always  to-mor 
row.  What  can  I  do  ?  Such  a  disgrace  was  never  known. 
No  bridal  dress.  No  veil.  The  signorina  is  too  young  to 
understand  such  things,  and  the  marchesa  is  not  like  other 
ladies,  or  one  might  venture  to  speak  to  her  about  it.  She 
would  only  give  me  '  accidenti '  if  I  did,  and  that  is  so  un 
lucky  !  To-morrow  I  must  make  the  signorina  search  that 
box.  There  will  be  a  white  dress  and  a  veil.  I  dreamed 
so.  Good  dreams  come  from  heaven.  I  have  had  a  candle 
lighted  for  luck  before  the  Santissima  in  the  market-place, 
and  fresh  flowers  put  into  the  pots.  There  will  be  sure  to 
be  a  white  dress  and  a  veil — the  saints  will  send  them  to 
the  signorina." 

Pipa  sweeps  and  sings.  Her  children,  Angelo  and  Gigi, 
are  roasting  chestnuts  under  the  window  outside. 

This  time  she  sings  a  nursery  rhyme : 

"  Little  Trot,  that  trots  so  gayly, 
And  without  legs  can  walk  so  bravely ! 
Trottolin !  Trottolino  !— 
Via!  via!" 

Pipa,  in  her  motherly  heart  looking  out,  blesses  little  Gigi 
— a  chubby  child  blackened  by  the  sun — to  see  him  sitting 
so  meek  and  good  beside  his  brother.  Angelo  is  a  naughty 
boy.  Pipa  does  not  love  him  so  well  as  Gigi.  Perhaps 
this  is  the  reason  Angelo  is  so  ill-furnished  in  point  of 
clothes.  His  patched  and  ragged  trousers  are  hitched  on 
with  a  piece  of  string.  Shirt  he  has  none ;  only  a  little 
dingy  waistcoat  buttoned  over  his  chest,  on  which  lies  a 
silver  medal  of  the  Madonna.  Angelo's  arms  are  bare,  his 
face  mahogany-color,  his  head  a  hopeless  tangle  of  color 
less  hair.  But  Angelo  has  a  pair  of  eyes  that  dance,  and  a 
broad,  red-lipped  mouth,  out  of  which  two  rows  of  white 
teeth  shine  like  pearls.  Angelo  has  just  burnt  his  fingers 
picking  a  chestnut  out  of  the  ashes.  He  turns  very  red, 


312  T1IE   ITALIANS. 

but  he  is  too  proud  to  cry.  Angelo's  hands  and  feet  are  so 
hard  he  does  not  feel  the  pointed  rocks  that  break  the  turf 
in  the  forest,  nor  does  he  fear  the  young  snakes,  as  plenty 
as  lizards,  in  the  warm  nooks.  All  yesterday  Angelo  had 
run  up  and  down  to  look  for  chestnuts,  on  his  naked  feet. 
He  dared  not  mount  into  the  trees,  for  that  would  be  steal 
ing  ;  but  he  leaped,  and  skipped,  and  slid  when  a  russet- 
coated  chestnut  caught  his  eye.  Gigi  was  with  him,  trusted 
to  his  care  by  Pipa,  with  many  objurations  and  terrible 
threats  of  future  punishment  should  he  ill-use  him. 

Ah  !  if  Pipa  knew ! — if  Pipa  had  only  seen  little  Gigi 
lonely  in  the  woods,  and  heard  his  roars  for  help !  Angelo, 
having  found  Gigi  troublesome,  had  tied  him  by  a  twisted 
cord  of  grass  to  the  trunk  of  an  ancient  chestnut.  Gigi  was 
trepanned  into  this  thralldom  by  a  heap  of  flowers  artful  An 
gelo  had  brought  him — purple  crocuses  and  cyclamens,  and 
Canterbury  bells,  and  gaudy  pea-stalks,  all  thrown  before 
the  child.  Gigi,  in  his  little  torn  petticoat,  had  swallowed 
the  bait,  and  flung  himself  upon  the  bright  blossoms,  grasp 
ing  them  in  his  dirty  fingers.  Presently  the  delighted  babe 
turned  his  eyes  upon  cunning  Angelo  standing  behind  him, 
showing  his  white  teeth.  Satisfied  that  Angelo  was  there, 
Gigi  buried  himself  among  the  flowers.  He  crowed  to  them 
in  his  baby  way,  and  flung  them  here  and  there.  Gigi 
would  run  and  catch  them,  too ;  but  suddenly  he  felt  some 
thing  which  stopped  him.  It  was  a  grass  cord  which  An 
gelo  had  secretly  woven  standing  behind  Gigi — then  had 
made  it  fast  round  Gigi's  waist  and  knotted  it  to  a  tree. 
A  cloud  came  over  Gigi's  jolly  little  face — a  momentary 
cloud — when  he  found  he  could  not  run  after  the  flowers. 
But  it  soon  passed  away,  and  he  squatted  down  upon  the 
grass  (the  inveigled  child),  and  again  clutched  the  tempt 
ing  blossoms.  Then  his  little  eyes  peered  round  for  Ange 
lo  to  play  with  him.  Alas  ! — Angelo  was  gone  ! 

Gigi  sobbed  a  little  to  himself  silently,  but  the  treacher- 


WAITING  AND   LONGING.  313 

ous  flowers  had  still  power  to  console  him ;  at  least,  he 
could  tear  them  to  pieces.  But  by-and-by  when  the  sun 
mounted  high  over  the  tops  of  the  forest-clad  mountains, 
and  poured  down  its  burning  rays,  swallowing  up  all  the 
shade  and  glittering  like  flame  on  every  leaf,  Gigi  grew 
hot  and  weary.  He  was  very  empty,  too ;  it  was  just  the 
time  that  Pipa  fed  him.  His  stomach  craved  for  food.  He 
craved  for  Pipa,  too,  for  home,  for  the  soft  pressure  of  Pipa's 
ample  bosom,  where  he  lay  so  snug. 

Gigi  looked  round.  He  did  not  sob  now,  but  set  up  a 
hideous  roar,  the  big  tears  coursing  down  his  fat  cheeks, 
marking  their  course  by  furrows  in  the  dirt  and  grime. 
The  wood  echoed  to  Gigi's  roars.  He  roared  for  mammy, 
for  daddy  (Angelo  Gigi  cannot  say,  it  is  too  long  a  word). 
He  kicked  away  the  flowers  with  his  pretty  dimpled  feet, 
the  false  flowers  that  had  betrayed  him.  The  babe  cannot 
reason,  but  instinct  tells  him  that  those  painted  leaves 
have  wronged  him.  They  are  faded  now,  and  lie  soiled 
and  crumpled,  the  ghosts  of  what  they  were.  Again  Gigi 
tries  to  rise  and  run,  but  he  is  drawn  roughly  down  by  the 
grass  rope.  He  tries  to  tear  it  asunder,  in  vain ;  Angelo 
had  taken  care  of  that.  At  last,  hoarse  and  weary,  Gigi 
subsided  into  terrible  sobs,  that  heave  his  little  breast. 
Sobbing  thus,  with  pouting  lips  and  heavy  eyes,  he  waits 
his  fate. 

It  comes  with  Angelo! — Angelo,  leaping  downward 
through  the  checkered  glades,  his  pockets  stuffed  with 
chestnuts.  Like  an  angel  with  healing  in  his  wings,  Angelo 
comes  to  Gigi.  When  he  spies  him  out,  Gigi  rises,  un 
steady  on  his  little  feet — rises  up,  forgetting  all,  and  clasps 
his  hands.  When  Angelo  comes  near,  and  stands  beside 
him,  Gigi  flings  his  chubby  arms  about  his  neck,  and  nes 
tles  to  him. 

Angelo,  Avhen  he  sees  Gigi's  disfigured  face  and  sodden 
eyes,  feels  his  conscience  prick  him.     With  his   pockets 
14 


314  TEE   ITALIANS. 

full  of  chestnuts  lie  pities  Gigi;  lie  kisses  him,  he  takes 
him  up,  and  bears  him  in  his  arms  quickly  toward  home. 
The  happy  child  closes  his  weary  eyes,  and  falls  asleep  on 
Angelo's  shoulder.  Pipa,  when  she  sees  Angelo  return — 
so  careful  of  his  little  brother — praises  him,  and  gives  him 
a  new-baked  cake.  Gigi  can  tell  no  tales,  and  Angelo  is 
silent. 

While  Pipa  sweeps-  and  sings,  Angelo  and  Gigi  are 
roasting  these  very  chestnuts  on  a  heap  of  ashes  under  the 
window  outside.  Enrica  sat  near  them — a  little  apart — on 
a  low  wall,  that  bordered  the  summit  of  the  cliff.  The 
zone  of  mighty  mountains  rose  sharp  and  clear  before  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  only  to  stretch  out  her  hand 
to  touch  them.  The  morning  lights  rested  on  them  with  a 
fresh  glory ;  the  crisp  air,  laden  with  a  scent  of  herbs, 
came  circling  round,  and  stirred  the  curls  upon  her  pretty 
head.  Enrica  wore  the  same  quaintly-cut  dress,  that  swept 
upon  the  ground,  as  when  Nobili  was  there.  She  had  no 
other.  All  had  been  burnt  in  the  fire.  Sitting  there,  she 
plucked  the  moss  that  grew  upon  the  wall,  and  watched 
it  as  it  dropped  into  the  abyss.  This  was  shrouded  in 
deepest  shadow.  The  rush  of  the  distant  river  in  the  val 
ley  below  was  audible.  Enrica  raised  her  head  and  lis 
tened.  That  river  flowed  round  the  walls  of  Lucca.  Nobili 
was  there.  Happy  river!  Oh,  that  it  would  bear  her  to 
him  on  its  frothy  current ! — Surely  her  life-path  lay  straight 
before  her  now  ! — straight  into  paradise  !  Not  a  stone  is 
on  that  path  ;  not  a  rise,  not  a  fall. 

"  In  a  week  I  will  return,"  Nobili  had  said.  In  a  week. 
And  his  eyes  had  rested  upon  her  as  he  spoke  the  words  in 
a  mist  of  love.  Enrica's  face  was  pale  and  almost  stern, 
and  her  blue  eyes  had  strange  lights  and  shadows  in  them. 
How  came  it  that,  since  he  had  left  her,  the  world  had 
grown  so  old  and  gray  ? — that  all  the  impulse  of  her  nature, 
the  quick  ebb  and  flow  of  youth  and  hope,  was  stilled  and 


WAITING  AND  LONGING.  315 

faded  out,  and  all  her  thoughts  absorbed  into  a  dreadful 
longing  ?  She  could  not  tell,  nor  could  she  tell  what  ailed 
her;  but  she  felt  that  she  was  changed.  She  tried  to 
listen  to  the  prattle  of  the  two  children — to  Pipa  singing 
above : 

"  Come  out !  come  out ! 

Never  despair ! 

Father  and  mother  and  sweetheart, 
All  will  be  there  ! " 

Enrica  could  not  listen.  It  was  the  dark  abyss  below  that 
drew  her  toward  its  silent  bosom.  She  hung  over  the  wall, 
her  eyes  measuring  its  depths.  What  ailed  her  ?  Was 
she  smitten  mad  by  the  wild  tumult  of  joy  that  had  swept 
over  her  as  she  stood  hand-in-hand  with  Nobili  ?  Or  was 
she  on  the  eve  of  some  crisis  ? — a  crisis  of  life  and  death  ? 
Oh !  why  had  Nobili  left  her  ?  When  would  he  return  ? 
She  could  not  tell.  All  she  knew  was,  that  in  the  stream 
ing  sunlight  of  this  wondrous  morning,  when  earth  and 
heaven  were  as  fair  as  on  the  first  creation-day,  without 
him  all  was  dark,  sad,  and  dreary. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   STORM   AT   THE   VILLA. 

A  FOOTSTEP  was  heard  upon  the  gravel.  The  dogs 
shut  up  in  the  cave  scratched  furiously,  then  barked  loudly. 
Following  the  footsteps  a  bareheaded  peasant  appeared, 
his  red  shirt  open,  showing  his  sunburnt  chest.  He  ran  up 
to  the  open  door,  a  letter  in  his  hand.  Seeing  Enrica 
sitting  on  the  low  wall,  he  stopped  and  made  her  a  rustic 
bow. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  Enrica  asked,  her  heart  beating 
wildly. 

" Illustrissima,"  and  the  man  bowed  again,  "I  am 
Giacomo — Giacomo  protected  by  his  reverence  Fra  Pacifico. 
You  have  heard  of  Giacomo  ?  " 

Enrica  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"  Surely  you  are  the  Signorina  Enrica  ?  " 

"Yes,  lam." 

"  Then  this  letter  is  for  you."  And  Giacomo  stepped 
up  and  gave  it  into  her  outstretched  hand.  "  I  was  to  tell 
the  illustrissima  that  the  letter  had  come  express  from 
Lucca  to  Fra  Pacifico.  Fra  Pacifico  could  not  bring  it 
down  himself,  because  the  wife  of  the  baker  Pietro  is  ill, 
and  he  is  nursing  her." 

Enrica  took  the  letter,  then  stared  at  Giacomo  so  fixed 
ly,  before  he  turned  to  go,  it  haunted  him  many  days  after, 
for  fear  the  signorina  had  given  him  the  evil-eye. 


A  STORM  AT  THE  VILLA.  317 

Enrica  held  the  letter  in  her  hand.  She  gazed  at  it 
(standing  on  the  spot  where  she  had  taken  it,  midway  be 
tween  the  door  and  the  low  wall,  a  glint  of  sunshine  strik 
ing  upon  her  hair,  turning  it  to  threads  of  gold)  in  silent 
ecstasy.  It  was  Nobili's  first  letter  to  her.  His  name  was 
in  the  corner,  his  monogram  on  the  seal.  The  letter  came 
to  her  in  her  loneliness  like  Nobili's  visible  presence.  Ah  ! 
who  does  not  recall  the  rapture  of  a  first  love-letter  ! — the 
tangible  assurance  it  brings  that  our  lover  is  still  our  own 
— the  hungry  eye  that  runs  over  every  line  traced  by  that 
dear  hand — the  oft-repeated  words  his  voice  has  spoken 
stamped  on  the  page — the  hidden  sense — the  half-dropped 
sentences — all  echoing  within  us  as  note  to  note  in  chords 
of  music  ! 

Enrica's  eyes  wandered  over  the  address,  "  To  the  No 
ble  Signorina  Enrica  Guinigi,  Corellia,"  as  if  each  word 
had  been  some  wonder.  She  dwelt  upon  every  crooked 
line  and  twist,  each  tail  and  flourish,  that  Nobili's  hand  had 
traced.  She  pressed  the  letter  to  her  lips,  then  laid  it  upon 
her  lap  and  gazed  at  it,  eking  out  every  second  of  suspense 
to  its  utmost  limit.  Suddenly  a  burning  curiosity  pos 
sessed  her  to  know  when  he  would  come.  With  a  gasp 
that  almost  stopped  her  breath  she  tore  the  cover  open. 
The  paper  shook  so  violently  in  her  unsteady  hand  that 
the  lines  seemed  to  run  up  and  down  and  dance.  She 
could  distinguish  nothing.  She  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
forehead,  steadied  herself,  then  read  : 

"  E:STJICA.  :  When  this  comes  to  you  I  am  gone  from 
you  forever.  You  have  betrayed  me — how  much  I  do  not 
care  to  know.  Perhaps  I  think  you  less  guilty  than  you 
are.  Of  all  women,  my  heart  clung  to  you.  I  loved  you 
as  men  only  love  once  in  their  lives.  For  the  sake  of  that 
love,  I  will  still  screen  you  all  I  can.  But  it  is  known  in 
Lucca  that  Count  Marescotti  was  your  accepted  lover 


318  THE  ITALIANS. 

when  you  promised  yourself  to  me.  Also,  that  Count 
Marescotti  refused  to  marry  you  when  you  were  offered  by 
the  Marchesa  Guinigi.  From  this  knowledge  I  cannot 
screen  you.  God  is  my  witness,  I  go,  not  desiring  by  my 
presence  or  my  words  to  reproach  you  further.  But,  as  a 
man  who  prizes  the  honor  of  his  house  and  home,  I  cannot 
marry  you.  Tell  the  marchesa  I  shall  keep  my  word  to 
her,  although  I  break  the  marriage-contract.  She  will  find 
the  money  placed  as  she  desired. 

"  MARIO  NOBILI. 

"  PALiZZO  NOBILI,  LUCCA." 

Little  by  little  Enrica  read  the  whole,  sentence  by  sen 
tence.  At  first  the  full  horror  of  the  words  was  veiled. 
They  came  to  her  in  a  dazed,  stupid  way.  A  mist  gathered 
about  her.  There  was  a  buzzing  in  her  ears  that  deadened 
her  brain.  She  forced  herself  to  read  over  the  letter  again. 
Then  her  heart  stood  still  with  terror — her  cheeks  burned 
— her  head  reeled.  A  deadly  cold  came  over  her.  Of  all 
within  that  letter  she  understood  nothing  but  the  words, 
"  I  am  gone  from  you  forever."  Gone ! — Nobili  gone ! 
Never  to  speak  to  her  again  in  that  sweet  voice ! — never 
to  press  his  lips  to  hers  ! — never  to  gather  her  to  him  in 
those  firm,  strong  arms!  OGod!  then  she  must  die !  If 
Nobili  were  gone,  she  must  die  !  A  terrible  pang  shot 
through  her ;  then  a  great  calmness  came  over  her,  and 
she  was  very  still.  "  Die ! — yes — why  not  ? — Die ! " 

Clutching  the  letter  in  her  icy  hand,  Enrica  looked 
round  with  pale,  tremulous  eyes,  from  which  the  light  has 
faded.  It  could  not  be  the  same  world  of  an  hour  ago. 
Death  had  come  into  it — she  is  about  to  die.  Yet  the  sun 
shone  fiercely  upon  her  face  as  she  turned  it  upward  and 
struck  upon  her  eyes.  The  children  laughed  over  the  chest 
nuts  spluttering  in  the  ashes.  Pipa  sang  merrily  above 
at  the  open  window.  A  bird — was  it  a  raven  ? — poised 


A  STORM  AT   THE   VILLA.  319 

itself  in  the  air ;  the  cattle  grazed  peacefully  on  the  green 
slopes  of  the  opposite  mountain,  and  a  drove  of  pigs  ran 
downward  to  drink  at  a  little  pool.  She  alone  has  changed. 

A  dull,  dim  consciousness  drew  her  forward  toward  the 
low  wall,  and  the  abyss  that  yawned  beneath.  There  she 
should  lie  at  peace.  There  the  stillness  would  quiet  her 
heart  that  beat  so  hard  against  her  side — surely  her  heart 
must  burst !  She  had  a  dumb  instinct  that  she  should  like 
to  sleep ;  she  was  so  weary.  Stronger  grew  the  passion 
of  her  longing  to  cast  herself  on  that  cold  bed — deep,  deep 
below — to  rest  forever.  She  tried  to  move,  but  could  not. 
She  tottered  and  almost  fell.  Then  all  swam  before  her. 
She  sank  backward  against  the  door;  with  her  two  hands 
she  clutched  the  post.  Her  white  face  was  set.  But  in 
her  agony  not  a  sound  escaped  her.  Her  secret — Nobili's 
secret — must  be  kept,  she  told  herself.  No  one  must  ever 
know  that  Nobili  had  left  her — that  she  was  about  to  die 
— no  one,  no  one  1 

With  a  last  effort  she  tried  to  rush  forward  to  take  that 
leap  below  which  would  end  all.  In  vain.  All  nature 
rushed  in  a  wild  whirlwind  around  her !  A  deadly  sickness 
seized  her.  Her  eyes  closed.  She  dropped  beside  the  door, 
a  little  ruffled  heap  upon  the  ground,  Nobili's  letter  clasped 
tightly  in  her  hand. 

"  My  love  he  is  to  Lucca  gone, 
To  Lucca  fair,  a  lord  to  be, 
And  I  would  fain  a  message  send, 
But  who  will  tell  my  tale  for  me  ?  " 

sang  out  Pipa  from  above. 

"  All  the  folk  say  that  I  am  brown  ; 

The  earth  is  brown,  yet  gives  good  corn ; 
The  clove-pink,  too,  although  'tis  brown, 
In  hands  of  gentlefolk  is  borne. 


320  THE  ITALIANS. 

"  They  say  ray  love  is  brown  ;  but  he 
Shines  like  an  angel-form  to  me ; 
They  say  my  love  is  dark  as  night, 
To  me  he  seems  an  angel  bright ! " 

Not  hearing  the  children's  voices,  and  fearing  some  trick 
of  naughty  Angelo  against  the  peace  of  her  precious  Gigi, 
Pipa  leaned  out  over  the  window-sill.  "  My  babe,  my  babe, 
where  art  thou  ?  "  was  on  her  lips  to  cry ;  instead,  Pipa  gave 
a  piercing  scream.  It  broke  the  mid-day  silence.  Argo 
barked  loudly. 

"Dio  Gesu  !"  Pipa  cried  wildly  out.  "The  signorina, 
she  is  dead !  Help !  help !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

BETWEEN   LIFE   AND   DEATH. 

MANY  hours  had  passed.  Enrica  lay  still  unconscious 
upon  her  bed,  her  face  framed  in  her  golden  hair,  her  blue 
eyes  open,  her  limbs  stiff,  her  body  cold.  Sometimes  her 
lips  parted,  and  a  smile  rippled  over  her  face ;  then  she 
shuddered,  and  drew  herself,  as  it  were,  together.  All  this 
time  Nobili's  letter  was  within  her  hand  ;  her  fingers  tight 
ened  over  it  with  a  convulsive  grasp. 

Pipa  and  the  cavaliere  were  with  her.  They  had  done 
all  they  could  to  revive  her,  but  without  effect.  Trenta, 
sitting  there,  his  hands  crossed  upon  his  knees,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  Enrica,  looked  suddenly  aged.  How  all  this 
had  come  about  he  could  not  even  guess.  He  had  heard 
Pipa's  screams,  and  so  had  the  marchesa,  and  he  had  come, 
and  he  and  Pipa  together  had  raised  her  up  and  placed  her 
on  her  bed ;  and  the  marchesa  had  charged  him  to  watch 
her,  and  let  her  know  when  she  came  to  her  senses. 
Neither  the  cavaliere  nor  Pipa  knew  that  Enrica  had  had 
a  letter  from  Nobili.  Pipa  noticed  a  paper  in  her  hand, 
but  did  not  know  what  it  was.  The  signorina  had  been 
struck  down  in  a  fit,  was  Pipa's  explanation.  It  was  very 
terrible,  but  God  or  the  devil — she  could  not  tell  which — 
did  send  fits.  They  must  be  borne.  An  end  would  come. 
She  had  done  all  she  could.  Seeing  no  present  change, 


322  THE  ITALIANS. 

Trenta  rose  to  go  to  the  marchesa.  His  joints  were  so  stiff 
he  could  not  move  at  all  without  his  stick,  and  the  furrows 
which  had  deepened  upon  his  face  were  moistened  with  tears. 

"Is  Enrica  no  better?"  the  marchesa  asked  him,  in  a 
voice  she  tried  to  steady,  but  could  not.  She  trembled  all 
over.^ 

"  Enrica  is  no  better,"  he  answered. 

"  Will  she  die  ?  "  the  marchesa  asked  again. 

"  Who  can  tell  ?     She  is  in  the  hands  of  God." 

As  he  spoke,  Trenta  shot  an  angry  scowl  at  his  friend — 
he  knew  her  so  well.  If  Enrica  died  the  Guinigi  race  was 
doomed — that  made  her  tremble,  not  affection  for  Enrica. 
A  word  more  from  the  marchesa,  and  Trenta  would  have 
told  her  this  to  her  face. 

"  We  are  all  in  the  hands  of  God,"  the  marchesa  re 
peated,  solemnly,  and  crossed  herself.  "  I  believe  little  in 
doctors." 

"  Still,"  said  Trenta,  "  if  there  is  no  change,  it  is  our 
duty  to  send  for  one.  Is  there  any  doctor  at  Corellia  ?  " 

"  None  nearer  than  Lucca,"  she  replied.  "  Send  for 
Fra  Pacifico.  If  he  thinks  it  of  any  use,  a  man  shall  be 
dispatched  to  Lucca  immediately." 

"  Surely  you  will  let  Count  Nobili  know  the  danger 
Enrica  is  in  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  "  cried  the  marchesa,  fiercely.  "  Count  No- 
bili  comes  back  here  to  marry  Enrica  or  not  at  all.  I  will 
not  have  him  on  any  other  terms.  If  the  child  dies,  he  will 
not  come.  That  at  least  will  be  a  gain." 

Even  on  the  brink  of  death  and  ruin  she  could  think  of 
this! 

"  Enrica  will  not  die  !  she  will  not  die ! "  sobbed  the 
poor  old  cavaliere,  breaking  down  all  at  once.  He  sank 
upon  a  chair  and  covered  his  face. 

The  marchesa  rose  and  placed  her  hand  upon  his  shoul 
der.  Her  heart  was  bleeding,  too,  but  from  another  cause. 


BETWEEN  LIFE   AND   DEATH.  323 

She  bore  her  wounds  in  silence.  To  complain  was  not  iu 
the  marcliesa's  nature.  It  would  have  increased  her  suffer 
ing  rather  than  have  relieved  it.  Still  she  pitied  her  old 
friend,  although  no  word  expressed  it;  nothing  but  the 
pressure  of  her  hand  resting  upon  his  shoulder.  Trenta's 
sobs  were  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  silence. 

"  This  is  losing  time,"  she  said.  "  Send  at  once  for  Fra 
Pacifico.  Until  he  comes,  we  know  nothing." 

When  Fra  Pacifico's  rugged,  mountainous  figure  entered 
Enrica's  room,  he  seemed  to  fill  it.  First,  he  blessed  the 
sweet  girl  lying  before  him  with  such  a  terrible  mockery  of 
life  in  her  widely-opened  eyes.  His  deep  voice  shook  and 
his  grave  face  twitched  as  he  pronounced  the  "Beatus." 
Leaning  over  the  bed,  Fra  Pacifico  proceeded  to  examine 
her  in  silence.  He  uncovered  her  feet,  and  felt  her  heart, 
her  hands,  her  forehead,  lifting  up  the  shining  curls  as  he 
did  so  with  a  tender  touch,  and  laying  them  out  upon  the 
pillow,  as  reverently  as  he  would  replace  a  relic. 

Cavaliere  Trenta  stood  beside  him  in  breathless  silence. 
Was  it  life  or  death  ?  Looking  into  Fra  Pacifico's  motion 
less  face,  none  could  tell.  Pipa  was  kneeling  in  a  corner, 
running  her  rosary  between  her  fingers ;  she  was  listening 
also,  with  mouth  and  eyes  wide  open. 

"  Her  pulse  still  beats,"  Fra  Pacifico  said  at  last,  be 
traying  no  outward  emotion.  "It  beats,  but  very  feebly. 
There  is  a  little  warmth  about  her  heart." 

"  San  Ricardo  be  thanked ! "  ejaculated  Trenta,  clasp 
ing  his  hands. 

With  the  mention  of  his  ancestral  saint,  the  cavaliere's 
thoughts  ran  on  to  the  Trenta  chapel  in  the  church  of  San 
Frediano,  where  they  had  all  stood  so  lately  together,  Enrica 
blooming  in  health  and  beauty  at  his  side.  His  sobs  choked 
his  voice. 

"  Shall  I  send  to  Lucca  for  a  doctor  ?  "  Trenta  asked, 
as  soon  as  he  could  compose  himself. 


324  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  As  you  please.  Her  condition  is  very  precarious ; 
nothing  can  be  done,  however,  but  to  keep  her  warm. 
That  I  see  has  been  attended  to.  She  could  swallow  noth 
ing,  therefore  no  doctor  could  help  her.  With  such  a  pulse, 
to  bleed  her  would  be  madness.  Her  youth  may  save  her. 
It  is  plain  to  me  some  shock  or  horror  must  have  struck 
her  down  and  paralyzed  the  vital  powers.  How  could  this 
have  been  ?  " 

The  priest  stood  over  her,  lost  in  thought,  his  bushy 
eyebrows  knit ;  then  he  turned  to  Pipa. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened,  Pipa,"  he  asked,  "  to  account 
for  this?" 

"  Nothing  your  reverence,"  she  answered.  "  I  saw  the 
signorina,  and  spoke  to  her,  not  ten  minutes  before  I  found 
her  lying  in  the  doorway." 

"  Had  any  one  seen  her  ?  " 

"No  one." 

"  I  sent  a  letter  to  her  from  Count  Nobili.  Did  you 
see  the  messenger  arrive  ?  " 

"No;  I  was  cleaning  in  the  upper  story.     He  might 
have  come  and  gone,  and  I  not  seen  him." 

"  I  heard  of  no  letter,"  put  in  the  bewildered  Trenta. 
''  What  letter  ?  No  one  mentioned  a  letter." 

"  Possibly,"  answered  Fra  Pacifico,  in  his  quiet,  impas 
sible  way,  "  but  there  was  a  letter."  He  turned  again  to 
interrogate  Pipa.  "  Then  the  signorina  must  have  taken 
the  letter  herself."  Slightly  raising  his  eyebrows,  a  sud 
den  light  came  into  his  eyes.  "  That  letter  has  done  this. 
What  can  Nobili  have  said  to  her  ?  Did  you  see  any  letter 
beside  her,  Pipa,  when  she  fell  ?  " 

Pipa  rose  up  from  the  corner  where  she  had  been  kneel 
ing,  raised  the  sheet,  and  pointed  to  a  paper  clasped  in  En- 
rica's  hand.  As  she  did  so,  Pipa  pressed  her  warm  lips 
upon  the  colorlesss  little  hand.  She  would  have  covered  the 
hand  again  to  keep  it  warm,  but  Fra  Pacifico  stopped  her. 


BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH.  325 

"  We  must  see  that  letter ;  it  is  absolutely  needful — I 
her  confessor,  and  you,  cavaliere,  Enrica's  best  friend ;  in 
deed,  her  only  friend." 

At  a  touch  of  his  strong  hand  the  letter  fell  from  En 
rica's  fingers,  though  they  clung  to  it  convulsively. 

"  Of  course  we  must  see  the  letter,"  the  cavaliere  re 
sponded  with  emphasis,  waking  up  from  the  apathy  of 
grief  into  which  he  had  been  plunged. 

Fra  Pacifico,  casting  a  look  of  unutterable  pity  on  En- 
rica,  whose  secret  it  seemed  sacrilege  to  violate  while  she 
lay  helpless  before  them,  unfolded  the  letter.  He  and  the 
cavaliere,  standing  on  tiptoe  at  his  side,  his  head  hardly 
reaching  the  priest's  elbow,  read  it  together.  When  Trenta 
had  finished,  an  expression  of  horror  and  rage  came  into 
his  face.  He  threw  his  arms  wildly  above  his  head. 

"  The  villain !  "  he  exclaimed,  " '  Gone  forever  ! ' — '  You 
have  betrayed  me  ! '  —  '  Cannot  marry  you ! '  —  '  Mares- 
cotti ! ' " 

Here  Trenta  stopped,  remembering  suddenly  what  had 
passed  between  himself  and  Count  Marescotti  at  their  in 
terview,  which  he  justly  considered  as  confidential.  Tren- 
ta's  first  feeling  was  one  of  amazement  how  Nobili  had 
come  to  know  it.  Then  he  remembered  what  he  had  said 
to  Baldassare  in  the  street,  to  quiet  him,  that  "  it  was  all 
right,  and  that  Enrica  would  consent  to  her  aunt's  com 
mands,  and  to  his  wishes." 

"  Beast !  "  he  muttered,  "  this  is  what  I  get  by  associat 
ing  with  one  who  is  no  gentleman.  I'll  punish  him !  " 

A  blank  terror  took  possession  of  the  cavaliere.  He 
glanced  at  Enrica,  so  life-like  with  her  fixed,  open  eyes,  and 
asked  himself,  if  she  recovered,  would  she  ever  forgive 
him? 

"  I  did  it  for  the  best ! "  he  murmured,  shaking  his 
white  head.  "  God  knows  I  did  it  for  the  best ! — the  dear, 
blessed  one  ! — to  give  her  a  home,  and  a  husband  to  pro- 


326  THE  ITALIANS. 

tect  her.  I  knew  nothing  about  Count  Nobili. — Why  did 
you  not  tell  me,  my  sweetest?  "  he  said,  leaning  over  the 
bed,  and  addressing  Enrica  in  his  bewilderment. 

Alas !  the  glassy  blue  eyes  stared  at  him  fixedly,  the 
white  lips  were  motionless. 

The  effect  of  all  this  on  Fra  Pacifico  had  been  very  dif 
ferent.  Under  the  strongest  excitement,  the  long  habit  of 
his  office  had  taught  him  a  certain  outward  composure. 
He  was  ignorant  of  much  which  was  known  to  the  cava- 
liere.  Fra  Pacifico  watched  his  excessive  agitation  with 
grave  curiosity. 

"  What  does  this  mean  about  Count  Marescotti  ?  "  he 
asked,  somewhat  sternly.  "  What  has  Count  Marescotti 
to  do  with  her  ?  " 

As  he  asked  this  question  he  stretched  his  arm  authori 
tatively  ovex  Enrica.  Protection  to  the  weak  was  the  first 
thought  of  the  strong  man.  His  great  bodily  strength  had 
been  given  him  for  that  purpose,  Fra  Pacifico  always  said. 

"  I  offered  her  in  marriage  to  Count  Marescotti,"  an- 
swerered  the  cavaliere,  lifting  up  his  aged  head,  and  meet 
ing  the  priest's  suspicious  glance  with  a  look  of  gentle  re 
proach.  "  What  do  you  think  I  could  have  done  but  this  ?  " 

"  And  Count  Marescotti  refused  her?" 

"  Yes,  he  refused  her  because  he  was  a  communist. 
Nothing  passed  between  them,  nothing.  They  never  met 
but  twice,  both  times  in  my  presence." 

Fra  Pacifico  was  satisfied. 

"  God  be  praised  ! "  he  muttered  to  himself. 

Still  holding  the  letter  in  his  hand,  the  priest  turned 
toward  Enrica.  Again  he  felt  her  pulse,  and  passed  his 
broad  hand  across  her  forehead. 

"  No  change !  "  he  said,  sadly — "  no  change  !  Poor 
child,  how  she  must  have  suffered !  And  alone,  too ! 
There  is  some  mistake — obviously  some  mistake." 

"  No  mistake  about  the  wretch  having  forsaken  her," 


BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH.  327 

interrupted  Trenta,  firing  up  at  what  he  considered  Fra 
Pacifico's  ill-placed  leniency.  "  Doniine  Dio !  No  mistake 
about  that." 

"  Yes,  but  there  must  be,"  insisted  the  other.  "  I  have 
known  Nobili  from  a  boy.  He  is  incapable  of  such  villainy. 
I  tell  you,  cavaliere,  Nobili  is  utterly  incapable  of  it.  He 
has  been  deceived.  By-and-by  he  will  bitterly  repent  this," 
and  Fra  Pacifico  held  up  the  letter. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Trenta,  bitterly — "  yes,  if  she  lives. 
If  he  has  killed  her,  what  will  his  repentance  matter  ?  " 

"Better  wait,  however,  until  we  know  more.  Nobili 
may  be  hot-headed,  vain,  and  credulous,  but  he  is  generous 
to  a  fault.  If  he  cannot  justify  himself,  why,  then  " — the 
priest's  voice  changed,  his  swarthy  face  flushed  with  a  dark 
glow — "  I  am  willing  to  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt 
— charity  demands  this — but  if  Nobili  cannot  justify  him 
self" — (the  cavaliere  made  an  indignant  gesture) — "leave 
him  to  me.  You  shall  be  satisfied,  cavaliere.  God  deals 
with  men's  souls  hereafter,  but  he  permits  bodily  punish 
ment  in  this  world.  Nobili  shall  have  his,  I  promise  you !" 

Fra  Pacifico  clinched  his  huge  fist  menacingly,  and 
dealt  a  blow  in  the  air  that  would  have  felled  a  giant. 

Having  given  vent  to  his  feelings,  to  the  unmitigated 
delight  of  the  cavaliere,  who  nodded  and  smiled — for  an  in 
stant  forgetting  his  sorrow,  and  Enrica  lying  there — Fra 
Pacifico  composed  himself. 

"  The  marchesa  must  see  that  letter,"  he  said,  in  his 
usual  manner.  "  Take  it  to  her,  cavaliere.  Hear  what  she 
says." 

The  cavaliere  took  the  letter  in  silence.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  despairingly. 

"  I  must  go  now  to  Corellia.  I  will  return  soon.  That 
Enrica  still  lives  is  full  of  hope."  Fra  Pacifico  said  this, 
turning  toward  the  little  bed  with  its  modest  shroud  of 
white  linen  curtains.  "  But  I  can  do  nothing.  The  feeble 


328  THE  ITALIANS. 

spark  of  life  that  still  lingers  in  her  frame  would  fly  for 
ever  if  tormented  by  remedies.  I  have  hope  in  God  only." 
And  he  gave  a  heavy  sigh. 

Before  Fra  Pacifico  departed,  he  took  some  holy  water 
from  a  little  vessel  near  the  bed,  and  sprinkled  it  upon  En- 
rica.  He  ordered  Pipa  to  keep  her  very  warm,  and  to 
watch  every  breath  she  drew.  Then  he  glided  from  the 
room  with  the  light  step  of  one  well  used  to  sickness. 

Cavaliere  Trenta  followed  him  slowly.  He  paused 
motionless  in  the  open  doorway,  his  eyes,  from  which  the 
tears  were  streaming,  fixed  on  Enrica — the  fatal  letter  in 
his  hand.  At  length  he  tore  himself  away,  closed  the  door, 
and,  crossing  the  sala,  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  marchesa's 
apartment. 

In  the  gray  of  the  early  morning  of  the  second  day, 
just  as  the  sun  rose  and  cast  a  few  straggling  gleams  into 
the  room,  Enrica  called  faintly  to  Pipa.  She  knew  Pipa 
when  she  came.  It  seemed  as  if  Enrica  had  waked  out  of 
a  long,  deep  sleep.  She  felt  no  pain,  but  an  excessive 
weakness.  She  touched  her  forehead  and  her  hair.  She 
handled  the  sheets — then  extended  both  her  hands  to  Pipa, 
as  if  she  had  been  buried  and  asked  to  be  raised  up  again. 
She  tried  to  sit  up,  but — she  fell  back  upon  her  pillow. 
Pipa's  arms  were  round  her  in  an  instant.  She  put  back 
the  long  hair  that  fell  upon  Enrica's  face,  and  poured  into 
her  mouth  a  few  drops  of  a  cordial  Fra  PaciBco  had  left  for 
her.  Pipa  dared  not  speak — Pipa  dared  not  breathe — so 
great  was  her  joy.  At  length  she  ventured  to  take  one  of 
Enrica's  hands  in  hers,  pressed  it  gently  and  said  to  her  in 
a  low  voice : 

"  You  must  be  very  quiet.     We  are  all  here." 
Enrica  looked  up  at  Pipa,   surprised  and  frightened; 
then  her  eyes  wandered  round  in  search  of  something. 
She  was  evidently  dwelling  upon  some  idea  she  could  not 


BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH.  329 

express.  She  raised  her  hand,  opened  it  slowly,  and  gazed 
at  it.  Her  hand  was  empty. 

"  Where  is — ?  "  Enrica  asked,  in  a  voice  like  a  sigh — 
then  she  stopped,  and  gazed  up  again  distressfully  into 
Pipa's  face.  Pipa  knew  that  Count  Nobili's  letter  had  been 
taken  by  Fra  Pacifico.  Now  she  bent  over  Enrica  in  an 
agony  of  fear  lest,  when  her  reason  came  and  she  missed 
that  letter,  she  should  sink  back  again  and  die. 

With  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  all  came  back  to  En 
rica  in  an  instant.  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  longed  never 
to  open  them  again  !  "  Gone  !  gone !  forever ! "  sounded 
in  her  ears  like  a  rushing  of  great  waters.  Then  she  lay 
for  a  long  time  quite  still.  She  could  not  bear  to  speak  to 
Pipa.  His  name — Nobili's  name — was  sacred.  If  Pipa 
knew  what  Nobili  had  done,  she  might  speak  ill  of  him. 
That  Enrica  could  not  bear.  Yet  she  should  like  to  know 
who  had  taken  his  letter. 

Her  brain  was  very  weak,  yet  it  worked  incessantly. 
She  asked  herself  all  manner  of  questions  in  a  helpless 
way ;  but  as  her  fluttering  pulses  settled,  and  the  blood 
returned  to  its  accustomed  channels,  faintly  coloring  her 
cheek,  the  truth  came  to  her.  Insulted ! — abandoned  ! — 
forgotten !  She  thought  it  all  over  bit  by  bit.  Each 
thought  as  it  rose  in  her  mind  seemed  to  freeze  the  return 
ing  warmth  within  her.  That  letter — oh,  if  she  could  only 
find  that  letter  !  She  tried  to  recall  every  phrase  and  put 
a  sense  to  it.  How  had  she  deceived  him  ?  What  could 
Nobili  mean  ?  What  had  she  done  to  be  talked  of  in  Luc 
ca  ?  Marescotti — who  was  he  ?  At  first  she  was  so  stunned 
she  forgot  his  name ;  then  it  came  to  her.  Yes,  the  poet — 
Marescotti — Trenta's  friend — who  had  raved  on  the  Guinigi 
Tower.  What  was  he  to  her  ?  Marry  Marescotti !  Oh  ! 
who  could  have  said  it  ? 

Gradually,  as  Enrica's  mind  became  clearer,  lying  there 
so  still  with  no  sound  but  Pipa's  measured  breathing,  she 


330  THE   ITALIANS. 

felt  to  its  full  extent  how  Nobili  had  wronged  her.  Why 
had  he  not  come  himself  and  asked  her  if  all  this  were  true  ? 
To  leave  her  thus  forever !  Without  even  asking  her — oh, 
how  cruel !  She  believed  in  him,  why  did  he  not  believe 
in  her  ?  No  one  had  ever  yet  told  her  a  lie ;  within  herself 
she  felt  no  power  of  deceit.  She  could  not  understand  it  in 
others,  nor  the  falseness  of  the  world.  Now  she  must  learn 
it  1  Then  a  great  longing  and  tenderness  came  over  her. 
She  loved  Nobili  still.  Even  though  he  had  smitten  her  so 
sorely,  she  loved  him — she  loved  him,  and  she  forgave  him  ! 
But  stronger  and  stronger  grew  the  thought,  even  while 
these  longings  swept  over  her  like  great  waves,  that  Nobili 
was  unworthy  of  her.  Should  she  love  him  less  for  that  ? 
Oh,  no !  He  was  unworthy  of  her — yet  she  yearned  after 
him.  He  had  left  her — but  in  her  heart  Nobili  should  for 
ever  sit  enthroned^and  she  would  worship  him ! 

And  they  had  been  so  happy,  so  more  than  happy — 
from  the  first  moment  they  had  met — and  he  had  shattered 
it !  Oh,  his  love  for  her  was  dead  and  buried  out  of  sight ! 
What  was  life  to  her  without  Nobili  ?  Oh,  those  fore 
bodings  that  had  clung  about  her  from  the  very  moment 
he  had  left  Corellia!  Now  she  could  understand  them. 
Never  to  see  him  again  ! — was  it  possible  ?  A  great  pity 
came  upon  her  for  herself.  No  one,  she  was  sure,  could 
ever  have  suffered  like  her — no  one — no  one.  This  thought 
for  some  time  pursued  her  closely.  There  was  a  terrible 
comfort  in  it.  Alas  !  all  her  life  would  be  suffering  now  1 

As  Enrica  lay  there,  her  face  turned  toward  the  wall, 
and  her  eyes  closed  (Pipa  watching  her,  thinking  she  had 
dozed),  suddenly  her  bosom  heaved.  She  gave  a  wild  cry. 
The  pent-up  tears  came  pouring  down  her  cheeks,  and  sob 
after  sob  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

This  burst  of  grief  saved  her — Fra  Pacifico  said  so  when 
he  came  down  later.  "  Death  had  passed  very  near  her," 
he  said,  "  but  now  she  would  recover." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FKA    PACIFICO    AND   THE   MAECHESA. 

ON  the  evening  of  that  day  the  marchesa  was  in  her  own 
room,  opening  from  the  sala.  The  little  furniture  the  room 
contained  was  collected  around  the  marchesa,  forming  a 
species  of  oasis  on  the  broad  desert  of  the  scagliola  floor.  A 
brass  lamp,  placed  on  a  table,  formed  the  centre  of  this  hab 
itable  spot.  The  marchesa  sat  in  deep  shadow,  but  in  the 
outline  of  her  tall,  slight  figure,  and  in  the  carriage  of  her 
head  and  neck,  there  was  the  same  indomitable  pride,  cour 
age,  and  energy,  as  before.  A  paper  lay  on  the  ground 
near  her;  it  was  Nobili's  letter.  Fra  Pacifico  sat  opposite 
to  her.  He  was  speaking.  His  deep-set  luminous  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  marchesa.  His  straight,  coarse  hair  was 
pushed  up  erect  upon  his  brow ;  there  was  at  all  times 
something  of  a  mane  about  it.  His  cassock  sat  loosely 
about  his  big,  well-made  limbs ;  his  priestly  stock  was 
loosed,  showing  the  dark  skin  of  his  throat  and  chin.  In 
the  turn  of  his  eye,  in  the  expression  of  his  countenance, 
there  were  anxiety,  restlessness,  and  distrust. 

"  Yes — Enrica  has  recovered  for  the  present,"  he  was 
saying,  "  but  such  an  attack  saps  and  weakens  the  very 
issues  of  life.  Count  Nobili,  if  not  brought  to  reason, 
would  break  her  heart."  She  was  obstinately  silent.  The 
balance  of  her  mind  was  partially  upset.  " '  I  shall  never 


332  THE   ITALIANS. 

see  Nobili  again,'  was  all  she  would  say  to  me.  It  is  a 
pity,  I  think,  that  you  sent  the  cavaliere  away  to  Lucca. 
Enrica  might  have  opened  her  mind  to  him." 

As  he  spoke,  Fra  Pacifico  crossed  one  of  his  legs  over 
the  other,  and  arranged  the  heavy  folds  of  his  cassock  over 
his  knees. 

"  And  who  says  Enrica  shall  not  see  Nobili  again  ? " 
asked  the  marchesa,  defiantly.  "  Holy  saints  !  That  is  my 
affair.  I  want  no  advice.  My  honor  is  now  as  much  con 
cerned  in  the  completion  of  this  marriage  as  it  was  before 
to  prevent  it.  The  contract  has  been  signed  in  my  pres 
ence.  The  money  agreed  upon  has  been  paid  over  to  me. 
The  marriage  must  take  place  I  have  sent  Trenta  to  Luc 
ca  to  make  preliminary  arrangements." 

"  I  rejoice  to  hear  it,"  answered  Fra  Pacifico,  his  coun 
tenance  brightening.  "  There  must  be  some  extraordinary 
mistake.  The  cavaliere  will  explain  it.  Some  enemies  of 
your  family  must  have  misled  Count  Nobili,  especially  as 
there  was  a  certain  appearance  of  concealment  respecting 
Count  Marescotti.  It  will  all  come  right.  I  only  feared 
lest  the  language  of  that  letter  would  have,  in  your  opinion, 
rendered  the  marriage  impossible." 

"  That  letter  does  not  move  me  in  the  least,"  answered 
the  marchesa  haughtily,  speaking  out  of  the  shadow.  She 
gave  the  letter  a  kick,  sending  it  farther  from  her.  "  I  care 
neither  for  praise  nor  insult  from  such  a  fellow.  He  is  but 
an  instrument  in  my  hand.  He  has,  however,  justified  my 
bad  opinion  of  him.  I  am  glad  of  that.  Do  you  imagine, 
my  father,"  she  added,  leaning  forward,  and  bringing  her 
head  for  an  instant  within  the  circle  of  the  light — "  do  you 
imagine  any  thing  but  absolute  necessity  would  have  induced 
me  to  allow  Count  Nobili  ever  to  enter  my  presence  ?  " 

"  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  that  your  pride  is  un-Christian, 
my  daughter."  Fra  Pacifico  spoke  with  warmth.  "  I  can 
not  permit  such  language  in  my  presence." 


FRA  PACIFICO  AND   THE   MARCHESA.  333 

The  marchesa  waved  her  hand  contemptuously,  then  con 
templated  him,  a  smile  upon  her  face. 

"  I  have  long  known  Count  Nobili.  He  has  the  faults 
of  his  age.  He  is  impulsive — vain,  perhaps — but  at  the 
same  time  he  is  loyal  and  generous.  He  was  not  himself 
when  he  wrote  that  letter.  There  is  a  passionate  sorrow 
about  it  that  convinces  me  of  this.  He  has  been  misled. 
The  offer  you  sanctioned  of  Enrica's  hand  to  Count  Mare- 
scotti,  has  been  misrepresented  to  him.  Undoubtedly  No 
bili  ought  to  have  sought  an  explanation  before  he  left 
Lucca ;  but,  the  more  he  loved  Enrica,  the  more  he  must 
have  suffered  before  he  could  so  address  her." 

"  You  justify  Count  Nobili,  then,  my  father,  not  only  for 
abandoning  my  niece,  but  for  endeavoring  to  blast  her 
character?  Is  this  your  Christianity?"  The  marchesa 
asked  this  question  with  bitter  scorn  ;  her  keen  eyes  shone 
mockingly  out  of  the  darkness.  "  I  told  you  what  he  was, 
remember.  I  have  some  knowledge  of  him  and  of  his 
father." 

"  My  daughter,  I  do  not  defend  him.  If  need  be,  I 
have  sworn  to  punish  him  with  my  own  hand.  But,  until 
I  know  all  the  circumstances,  I  pity  him ;  I  repeat,  I  pity 
him.  Some  powerful  influence  must  have  been  brought  to 
bear  upon  Nobili.  It  may  have  been  a  woman." 

"  Ha  !  ha !  "  laughed  the  marchesa,  contemptuously. 
"  You  admit,  then,  Nobili  has  a  taste  for  women  ?  " 

Fra  Pacifico  rose  suddenly  from  his  chair.  An  expres 
sion  of  deep  displeasure  was  on  his  face,  which  had  grown 
crimson  under  the  marchesa's  taunts. 

"I  desire  no  altercation,  marchesa,  nor  will  I  permit 
you  to  address  such  unseemly  words  to  me.  What  I  deem 
fitting  I  shall  say,  now  and  always.  It  is  my  duty.  You 
have  called  me  here.  What  do  you  want  ?  How  can  I 
help  you  ?  In  all  things  lawful  I  am  ready  to  do  so.  Nay, 
I  will  take  the  whole  matter  on  myself  if  you  desire." 


334  THE   ITALIANS. 

As  he  spoke,  Fra  Pacifico  stooped  and  raised  Nobili's 
crumpled  letter  from  the  floor.  He  spread  it  out  open  on 
the  table.  The  marchesa  motioned  to  him  to  reseat  him 
self.  He  did  so. 

"  What  I  want  ?  "  she  said,  taking  up  the  priest's  words. 
"  I  will  tell  you.  When  I  bring  Count  Nobili  here  " — the 
marchesa  spoke  very  slowly,  and  stretched  out  her  long 
fingers,  as  though  she  held  him  already  in  her  grasp — 
"  when  I  bring  Count  Nobili  here,  I  want  you  to  perform 
the  marriage  ceremony.  It  must  take  place  immediately. 
Under  the  circumstances  the  marriage  had  better  be  pri 
vate." 

"  I  shall  not  perform  the  ceremony,"  answered  Fra 
Pacifico,  his  full,  deep  voice  ringing  through  the  room, 
"  at  your  bidding  only.  Enrica  must  also  consent.  Enrica 
must  consent  in  my  presence." 

As  the  light  of  the  lamp  struck  upon  Fra  Pacifico,  the 
lines  about  his  mouth  deepened,  and  that  look  of  courage 
and  of  command  the  people  of  Corellia  knew  so  well  was 
marked  upon  his  countenance.  A  rock  might  have  been 
moved,  but  not  Fra  Pacifico. 

"  Enrica  shall  obey  me ! "  cried  the  marchesa.  Her 
temper  was  rising  beyond  control  at  the  idea  of  any  oppo 
sition  at  such  a  critical  moment.  She  had  made  her  plan, 
settled  it  with  Trenta  ;  her  plan  must  be  carried  out. 
"  Enrica  shall  obey  me,"  she  repeated.  "  Enrica  will  obey 
me  unless  instigated  by  you,  Fra  Pacifico." 

"  My  daughter,"  replied  the  priest,  "  if  you  forget  the 
respect  due  to  my  office,  I  shall  leave  you." 

"Pardon  me,  my  father,"  and  the  marchesa  bowed 
stiffly;  "but  I  appeal  to  your  justice.  Can  I  allow  that 
reprobate  to  break  my  niece's  heart  ? — to  tarnish  her  good 
name  ?  If  there  were  a  single  Guinigi  left,  he  would  stab 
Nobili  like  a  dog !  Such  a  fellow  is  unworthy  the  name 
of  gentleman.  Marriage  alone  can  remove  the  stain  he  has 


FRA  PACIFICO  AND  THE  MARCIIESA.  335 

cast  upon  Enrica.  It  is  no  question  of  sentiment.  The 
marriage  is  essential  to  the  honor  of  my  house.  Enrica 
must  be  called  Countess  Nobili,  whether  Nobili  pleases  it 
or  not.  Else  how  can  I  keep  his  money  ?  And  without  his 
money — "  She  paused  suddenly.  In  the  warmth  of  speech 
the  marchesa  had  been  actually  led  into  the  confession  that 
Nobili  was  necessary  to  her  "  I  have  the  contract,"  she 
added.  "  Thank  Heaven,  I  have  the  contract !  Nobili  is 
legally  bound  by  the  contract." 

"  Yes,  that  may  be,"  answered  Fra  Pacifico,  reflectively, 
"if  you  choose  to  force  him.  But  I  warn  you  that  I  will 
put  no  violence  on  Enrica's  feelings.  She  must  decide  for 
herself." 

"  But  if  Enrica  still  loves  him,"  urged  the  marchesa,  de 
termined  if  possible  to  avoid  an  appeal  to  her  niece — "  if 
Enrica  still  loves  him,  as  you  assure  me  she  does,  may  we 
not  look  upon  her  acquiescence  as  obtained  ?  " 

Fra  Pacifico  shook  his  head.  He  was  perfectly  unmoved 
by  the  marchesa's  violence. 

"  Life,  honor,  position,  reputation,  all  rest  on  this  mar 
riage.  I  have  accepted  Count  Nobili's  money;  Count 
Nobili  must  accept  my  niece." 

"  Your  niece  must  nevertheless  consent.  I  can  permit 
no  other  arrangement.  Then  you  have  to  find  Count  No 
bili.  He  must  voluntarily  appear  at  the  altar." 

Fra  Pacifico  turned  his  resolute  face  full  upon  the  mar 
chesa.  Her  whole  attitude  betrayed  intense  excitement. 

"  Your  niece  must  consent,  Count  Nobili  must  appear 
voluntarily  before  the  altar,  else  the  Church  cannot  sanction 
the  union.  It  would  be  sacrilege.  How  do  you  propose 
to  overcome  Count  Nobili's  refusal  ?  " 

"  By  the  law  !  "  exclaimed  the  marchesa,  imperiously. 

Fra  Pacifico  turned  aside  his  head  to  conceal  a  smile. 
The  law  had  not  hitherto  favored  the  marchesa.  Her  con- 


336  THE  ITALIANS. 

stant  appeal  to  the  law  had  been  the  principal  cause  of  her 
present  troubles. 

"  By  the  law,"  the  marchesa  repeated.  Her  sallow  face 
glowed  for  a  moment.  "  Surely,  Fra  Pacifico — surely  you 
will  not  oppose  me  ?  You  talk  of  the  Church.  The  Church, 
indeed !  Did  not  the  wretch  sign  the  marriage-contract  in 
your  presence  ?  The  Church  must  enable  him  to  complete 
his  contract.  In  your  presence  too,  as  priest  and  civil  dele 
gate  ;  and  you  talk  of  sacrilege,  my  father !  Che !  che ! 
Dio  buono  !  "  she  exclaimed,  losing  all  self-control  in  the 
conviction  her  own  argument  brought  to  her — "  Fra  Pacifico, 
you  must  be  mad !  " 

"  I  only  ask  for  Enrica's  consent,"  answered  the  priest. 
"  That  given,  if  Count  Nobili  comes,  I  will  consent  to  mar 
ry  them." 

"  Count  Nobili — he  shall  come — never  fear,"  and  the 
marchesa  gave  a  short,  scornful  laugh.  "After  I  have  been 
to  Lucca  he  will  come.  I  shall  have  done  my  duty.  It  is 
all  very  well,"  added  the  marchesa,  loftily,  "  for  low  people 
to  pair  like  animals,  from  inclination.  Such  vulgar  motives 
have  no  place  in  the  world  in  which  I  live.  Persons  of  my 
rank  form  alliances  among  themselves  from  more  elevated 
considerations;  from  political  and  prudential  motives ;  for 
the  sake  of  great  wealth  when  wealth  is  required ;  to  shed 
fresh  lustre  on  an  historic  name  by  adding  to  it  the  splen 
dor  of  another  equally  illustrious.  My  own  marriage  was 
arranged  for  this  end.  Again  I  remind  you,  my  father, 
that  nothing  but  necessity  would  have  forced  me  to  permit 
a  usurer's  son  to  dare  to  aspire  to  the  hand  of  my  niece. 
It  is  a  horrible  degradation — the  first  blot  on  a  spotless 
escutcheon." 

"  Again  I  warn  you,  my  daughter,  such  pride  is  un 
seemly.  Summon  Enrica  at  once.  Let  us  hear  what  she 
says." 

The  marchesa  drew  back  into  the  shadow,  and  was  si- 


FRA   PACIFICO  AND   THE   MARCHESA.  337 

lent.  As  long  as  she  could  bring  her  battery  of  arguments 
against  Fra  Pacifico,  she  felt  safe.  What  Enrica  might 
say,  who  could  tell  ?  One  word  from  Enrica  might  over 
turn  all  her  subtle  combinations.  That  Fra  Pacifico  should 
assist  her  was  indispensable.  Another  priest,  less  inter 
ested  in  Enrica,  might,  under  the  circumstances,  refuse  to 
unite  them.  Even  if  that  difficulty  could  be  got  over,  the 
marchesa  was  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that  a  painful  scene 
would  probably  occur — such  a  scene  as  ought  not  to  be 
witnessed  by  a  stranger.  Hence  her  hesitation  in  calling 
Enrica. 

During  this  pause.  Fra  Pacifico  crossed  his  arms  upon 
his  breast  and  waited  in  silence. 

"  Let  Enrica  come,"  said  the  marchesa  at  last ;  "  I  have 
no  objection."  She  threw  herself  back  on  her  seat,  and 
doggedly  awaited  the  result. 

Fra  Pacifico  rose  and  opened  a  door  on  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  communicating  with  the  vaulted  passage  which 
had  connected  the  villa  with  the  tower. 

"Who  is  there  ?  "  he  called.  (Bells  were  a  luxury  un 
known  at  Corellia.) 

"  I,"  answered  Angelo,  running  forward,  his  eyes  gleam 
ing  like  two  stars.  Angelo  sometimes  acted  as  acolyte  to 
Fra  Pacifico.  Angelo  was  proud  to  show  his  alacrity  to 
his  reverence,  who  had  often  cuffed  him  for  his  mischievous 
pranks ;  specially  on  one  occasion,  when  Fra  Pacifico  had 
found  him  in  the  act  of  pushing  Gigi  stealthily  into  the 
marble  basin  of  the  fountain,  to  see  if,  being  small,  Gigi 
would  swim  like  the  gold-fish. 

"  Go  to  the  Signorina  Enrica,  Angelo,  and  tell  her  that 
the  marchesa  wants  her." 

As  long  as  Enrica  was  ill,  Fra  Pacifico  went  freely  in 
and   out  of  her  room ;  now  that  she  was  recovered,  and 
had  risen  from  her  bed,  it  was  not  suitable  for  him  to  seek 
her  there  himself. 
15 


CHAPTER  V. 

TO    BE,    OE   NOT   TO    BE? 

Angelo  knocked  at  Enrica's  door,  Pipa,  who 
was  with  her,  opened  it,  and  gave  her  Fra  Pacifico's  mes 
sage.  The  summons  was  so  sudden  Enrica  had  no  time  to 
think,  but  a  wild,  unmeaning  delight  possessed  her.  It 
was  so  rare  for  her  aunt  to  send  for  her  she  must  be  going 
to  tell  her  something  about  Nobili.  With  his  name  upon 
her  lips,  Enrica  started  up  from  the  chair  on  which  she  had 
been  half  lying,  and  ran  toward  the  door. 

"  Softly,  softly,  my  blessed  angel ! "  cried  Pipa,  following 
her  with  outstretched  arms  as  if  she  were  a  baby  taking  its 
first  steps.  "  You  were  all  but  dead  this  morning,  and 
now  you  run  like  little  Gigi  when  I  call  to  him." 

"  I  can  walk  very  well,  Pipa."  Enrica  opened  the 
door  with  feverish  haste.  "  I  must  not  keep  my  aunt  wait- 

ing." 

"Let  me  put  a  shawl  round  you,"  insisted  kind  Pipa. 
"  The  evening  is  fresh." 

She  wrapped  a  large  white  shawl  about  her,  that  made 
Enrica  look  paler  and  more  ghost-like  than  before. 

"Nobody  loves  me  like  you,  Pipa  —  nobody  —  dear 
Pipa ! " 

Enrica  threw  her  soft  arms  around  Pipa  as  she  said 
this.  She  felt  so  lonely  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  al 
ready  swollen  with  excessive  weeping. 


TO  BE,  OR  NOT  TO  BE?  339 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  was  Pipa's  grave  reply.  "  It  is  a 
strange  world.  You  must  not  judge  a  man  always  by 
what  he  does." 

Enrica  gave  a  deep  sigh.  She  had  hurried  out  of  her 
room  into  the  sala  with  a  headlong  impulse  to  rush  to  her 
aunt.  Now  she  dreaded  what  her  aunt  might  have  to  say 
to  her.  The  little  strength  she  had  suddenly  left  her.  The 
warm  blood  that  had  mounted  to  her  head  chilled  within 
her  veins.  For  a  few  moments  she  leaned  against  Pipa,  who 
watched  her  with  anxious  eyes.  Then,  disengaging  her 
self  from  her,  she  trod  feebly  across  the  floor.  The  sala 
was  in  darkness.  Enrica  stretched  out  her  hands  before 
her  to  feel  for  the  door.  When  she  had  found  it  she 
stopped  terrified.  What  was  she  about  to  hear?  The 
deep  voice  of  Fra  Pacifico  was  audible  from  within.  En 
rica  placed  her  hand  upon  the  handle  of  the  door — then 
she  withdrew  it.  Without  the  autumn  wind  moaned  round 
the  corners  of  the  house.  How  it  must  roar  in  the  abyss 
under  the  cliffs  !  Enrica  thought.  How  dark  it  must  be 
down  there  in  the  blackness  of  the  night !  Like  letters 
written  in  fire,  Nobili's  words  rose  up  before  her — "  I  am 
gone  from  you  forever ! "  Oh  !  why  was  she  not  dead  ? — 
Why  was  she  not  lying  deep  below,  buried  among  the 
cold  rocks  ? — Enrica  felt  very  faint.  A  groan  escaped  her. 

Fra  Pacifico,  accustomed  to  listen  to  the  almost  inau 
dible  sounds  of  the  sick  and  the  dying,  heard  it. 

The  door  opened.  Enrica  found  herself  within  the 
room. 

"Enrica,"  said  the  marchesa,  addressing  her  blandly 
(did  not  all  now  depend  upon  her  ?) — "  Enrica,  you  look 
very  pale." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  looked  round  vacantly.  The 
light  of  the  lamp,  coming  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness,  the 
finding  herself  face  to  face  with  the  marchesa,  dazzled  and 
alarmed  her, 


340  THE  ITALIANS. 

Fra  Pacifico  took  both  Enrica's  hands  in  his,  drew  an 
arm-chair  forward,  and  placed  her  in  it. 

"  Enrica,  I  have  sent  for  you  to  ask  you  a  question," 
the  marchesa  spoke. 

At  the  sound  of  her  aunt's  voice,  Enrica  shuddered 
visibly.  Was  it  not,  after  all,  the  marchesa's  fault  that 
Nobili  had  left  her  ?  Why  had  the  marchesa  thrown  her 
into  Count  Marescotti's  company  ?  Why  had  the  marchesa 
offered  her  in  marriage  to  Count  Marescotti  without  telling 
her  ?  At  this  moment  Enrica  loathed  her.  Something  of 
all  this  passed  over  her  pallid  face  as  she  turned  her  eyes 
beseechingly  toward  Fra  Pacifico.  The  marchesa  watched 
her  with  secret  rage. 

Was  this  silly,  love-sick  child  about  to  annihilate  the 
labors  of  her  life?  Was  this  daughter  of  her  husband's 
cousin,  Antonio — a  collateral  branch — about  to  consign  the 
Guinigi  .name  to  the  tomb  ?  She  could  have  lifted  up  her 
voice  and  cursed  her  where  she  stood. 

"  Enrica,  I  have  sent  for  you  to  ask  you  a  question." 
Spite  of  her  efforts  to  be  calm,  there  was  a  strange  ring  in 
her  voice  that  made  Enrica  look  up  at  her.  "  Enrica,  do 
you  still  love  Count  Nobili  ?  " 

"  This  is  not  a  fair  question,"  interrupted  Fra  Pacifico, 
coming  to  the  rescue  of  the  distressed  Enrica,  who  sat 
speechless  before  her  terrible  aunt.  "  I  know  she  still  loves 
him.  The  love  of  a  heart  like  hers  is  not  to  be  destroyed 
by  such  a  letter  as  that,  and  the  unjust  accusations  it  con 
tains." 

Fra  Pacifico  pointed  with  his  finger  to  Nobili's  letter 
lying  where  he  had  placed  it  on  the  table.  Seeing  the  let 
ter,  Enrica  started  back  and  shivered. 

"  Is  it  not  so,  Enrica  ?  " 

The  little  blond  head  and  the  sad  blue  eyes  bowed  them 
selves  gently  in  response.  A  faint  smile  flitted  across  En 
rica's  face.  Fra  Pacifico  had  spoken  all  her  mind,  which 


TO  BE,  OR  NOT  TO  BE?  341 

she  in  her  weakness  could  not  have  done,  especially  with 
her  aunt's  dark  eyes  riveted  upon  her. 

"  Then  you  still  love  Count  Nobili  ?  "  The  marchesa 
accentuated  each  word  with  bitter  emphasis. 

"  I  do,"  answered  Enrica,  faintly. 

"  If  Count  Nobili  returns  here,  will  you  marry  him  ?  " 

As  the  marchesa  spoke,  Enrica  trembled  like  a  leaf. 
"  What  was  she  to  answer  ?  "  The  little  composure  she 
had  been  able  to  assume  utterly  forsook  her.  She  who  had 
believed  that  nothing  was  left  but  to  die,  was  suddenly 
called  upon  to  live  ! 

"  O  my  aunt,"  Enrica  cried,  springing  to  her  feet, 
"  how  can  I  look  Nobili  in  the  face  after  that  letter  ?  He 
thinks  I  have  deceived  him." 

Enrica  stopped  ;  the  words  seemed  to  choke  her.  With 
an  imploring  look,  she  turned  toward  Fra  Pacifico.  With 
out  knowing  what  she  did  Enrica  flung  herself  on  the  floor 
at  his  feet;  sheclaspod  his  knees — she  turned  her  beseech 
ing  eyes  into  his. 

"  O  my  father,  help  me !  Nobili  is  my  very  life. 
How  can  I  refuse  what  is  my  very  life  ?  When  Nobili  left 
me,  my  first  thought  was  to  die  ! " 

"  Surely,  my  daughter,  not  by  a  violent  death  ?  "  asked 
Fra  Pacifico,  stooping  over  her. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  and  Earica  wrung  her  hands,  "  yes,  I  would 
have  done  it — I  could  not  bear  to  live  without  him." 

A  look  of  sorrow  and  reproach  darkened  Fra  Pacifico's 
brow.  He  crossed  himself.  "God  be  praised,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "  you  were  saved  from  that  wickedness !  " 

"  My  father  " — Enrica  extended  her  arms  toward  him — 
"  I  implore  you,  for  the  love  of  Jesus,  let  me  enter  a  con 
vent  !  " 

In  these  few  and  simple  words  Enrica  had  tried  all  her 
powers  of  persuasion.  The  words  were  addressed  to  the 
priest ;  but  her  blue  eyes,  filled  with  tears,  gathered  them- 


342  THE   ITALIANS. 

selves  upon  the  marchesa  imploringly.  Enrica  awaited  her 
fate  in  silence.  The  priest  rose  and  gently  replaced  her  on 
her  chair.  All  the  benevolence  of  his  manly  nature  was 
called  forth.  He  cast  a  searching  glance  at  the  marchesa. 
Nothing  betrayed  her  feelings. 

"  Calm  yourself,  Enrica,"  Fra  Pacifico  said,  soothingly. 
"  No  one  seeks  to  hurry  or  to  force  you.  But  I  could 
not  for  a  moment  sanction  3rour  entering  a  convent.  In 
your  present  state  of  mind  it  would  be  an  unholy  and  an 
unnatural  act." 

Although  outwardly  unmoved,  never  in  her  life  had  the 
marchesa  felt  such  exultation.  Had  Fra  Pacifico  seconded 
Enrica's  proposal  to  enter  a  convent,  all  would  have  been 
lost !  Still  nothing  was  absolutely  decided.  It  was  pos 
sible  Fra  Pacifico  might  yet  frustrate  her  plans.  She  ven 
tured  another  question. 

"  If  Count  Nobili  meets  you  at  the  altar,  you  will  not 
then  refuse  to  marry  him  ?  " 

There  was  an  imperceptible  tremor  in  the  marchesa's 
voice.  The  suspense  was  becoming  intolerable  to  her. 

"  Refuse  to  marry  him  ?  Refuse  Nobili  ?  No,  no,  I  can 
refuse  Nobili  nothing,"  answered  Enrica,  dreamily.  "  But 
he  will  not  come  ! — he  is  gone  forever  !  " 

"He  will  come,"  insisted  the  marchesa,  pushing  her  ad 
vantage  skillfully. 

"  But  will  he  love  me  ?  "  asked  the  tender  young  voice. 
"  Will  he  believe  that  I  love  him  ?  Oh,  tell  me  that  !— 
Father  Pacifico,  help  me !  I  cannot  think."  Enrica  pressed 
her  hands  to  her  forehead.  She  had  suffered  so  much,  now 
that  the  crisis  had  come  she  was  stunned,  she  had  no  power 
to  decide.  "  Dare  I  marry  him  ? — Ought  we  to  part  for 
ever  ?  "  A  flush  gathered  on  her  cheek,  an  ineffable  long 
ing  shone  from  her  eyes.  More  than  life  was  in  the  bal 
ance — not  only  to  Enrica,  but  to  the  marchesa — the  mar- 


TO  BE,  OR  NOT  TO  BE?  343 

chesa,  who,  wrapped  within  the  veil  of  her  impenetrable 
reserve,  breathlessly  awaited  an  answer. 

Fra  Pacifico  showed  unmistakable  signs  of  agitation. 
He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  for  some  minutes  strode  rapidly 
up  and  down  the  room,  the  floor  creaking  under  his  heavy 
tread.  The  life  of  this  fragile  girl  lay  in  his  hands.  How 
could  he  resist  that  pleading  look  ?  Enrica  had  done  noth 
ing  wrong.  Was  Enrica  to  suffer — die,  perhaps — because 
Nobili  had  wrongfully  accused  her  ?  Fra  Pacifico  passed 
his  large,  muscular  hand  thoughtfully  over  his  clean-shaven 
chin,  then  stopped  to  gaze  upon  her.  Her  lips  were  parted, 
her  eyes  dilated  to  their  utmost  limit. 

"  My  child,"  he  said  at  last,  laying  his  hand  upon  her 
head  with  fatherly  tenderness — "  my  child,  if  Count  No 
bili  returns  here,  you  will  be  justified  in  marrying  him." 

Enrica  sank  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  A  great  leap  of 
joy  overwhelmed  her.  She  dared  not  question  her  happi 
ness.  To  behold  Nobili  once  more — only  to  behold  him — 
filled  her  with  rapture. 

"  What  is  your  answer,  Enrica  ?  I  must  hear  your  an 
swer  from  yourself." 

The  marchesa  spoke  out  of  the  darkness.  She  shrank 
from  allowing  Fra  Pacifico  to  scrutinize  the  exultation 
marked  on  her  every  feature. 

"  My  aunt,  if  Nobili  comes  here  to  claim  me,  I  will  marry 
him,"  answered  Enrica,  more  firmly.  "But  stop" — her 
eye  had  meanwhile  traveled  to  the  letter  still  lying  on 
the  table — a  horrible  doubt  crossed  her  mind.  "Will 
Nobili  know  that  I  am  not  what  he  says  there — in  that 
letter?" 

Enrica  could  bring  herself  to  say  no  more.  She  longed 
to  ask  all  that  had  happened  about  Count  Marescotti,  and 
how  her  name  had  been  mixed  up  with  his,  but  the  words 
refused  to  come. 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  answered  the  marchesa,  imperious- 


344  THE   ITALIANS. 

ly.  "If  Count  Nobili  comes  to  marry  you,  is  not  that 
proof  enough  that  he  is  satisfied  ?  " 

Enrica  felt  that  it  must  be  so.  A  wild  joy  possessed 
her.  This  joy  was  harder  to  bear  than  the  pain.  Enrica 
was  actually  sinking  under  the  hope  that  Nobili  might  re 
turn  to  her  I 

Fra  Pacifico  noticed  the  gray  shadow  that  was  creeping 
over  her  face. 

"  Enrica  must  go  at  once  to  her  room,"  he  said  ab 
ruptly,  "  else  I  cannot  answer  for  the  consequences.  Her 
strength  is  overtaxed." 

As  he  spoke,  Fra  Pacifico  hastily  opened  the  door  lead 
ing  into  the  sala.  He  took  Enrica  by  the  hand  and  raised 
her.  She  was  perfectly  passive.  The  marchesa  rose  also ; 
for  the  first  time  she  came  into  the  full  light  of  the  lamp. 
Enrica  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand  mechanically. 

"My  niece,  you  may  prepare  for  your  approaching 
marriage.  Count  Nobili  will  be  here  shortly — never  fear." 

The  marchesa's  manner  was  strange,  almost  menacing. 
Fra  Pacifico  led  Enrica  across  the  sala  to  her  own  door. 
When  he  returned,  the  marchesa  was  again  reading  Count 
Nobili's  letter. 

"  A  love-match  in  the  Guiuigi  family  !  "  She  was  laugh 
ing  with  derision.  "  What  are  we  coming  to  ?  " 

She  tore  the  letter  into  innumerable  fragments. 

"  My  father,  I  shall  leave  for  Lucca  early  to-morrow. 
You  must  look  after  Enrica.  I  am  satisfied  with  what  has 
passed." 

"  God  send  we  have. done  right ! "  answered  the  priest, 
gloomily.  "  Now  at  least  she  has  a  chance  of  life." 

"  Adieu,  Fra  Pacifico.  When  next  we  meet  it  will  be 
at  the  marriage." 

Fra  Pacifico  withdrew.  Had  he  done  his  duty  ? — Fra 
Pacifico  dared  not  ask  himself  the  question. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    CHUBCH   AND   THE   LAW. 

TEN  days  after  the  departure  of  the  marchesa,  Fra  Pa- 
cifico  received  the  following  letter : 

"  REVEREND  AND  ESTEEMED  FATHER  :  I  have  put  the 
matter  of  Enrica's  marriage  into  the  hands  of  the  well- 
known  advocate,  Maestro  Guglielmi,  of  Lucca.  He  at  once 
left  for  Rome.  By  extraordinary  diligence  he  procured  a 
summons  for  Count  Nobili  to  appear  within  fifteen  days  be 
fore  the  tribunal,  to  answer  in  person  for  his  breach  of 
marriage-contract — unless,  before  the  expiration  of  that 
time,  he  should  make  the  contract  good  by  marriage.  The 
citation  was  left  with  the  secretary  at  Count  Nobili's  own 
house.  Maestro  Guglielmi  also  informed  the  secretary,  by 
my  order,  that,  in  default  of  his — Count  Nobili's — appear 
ance,  a  detailed  account  of  the  whole  transaction  Avith  my 
niece,  and  of  other  transactions  touching  Count  Nobili's 
father,  known  to  me — of  which  I  have  informed  Maestro 
Guglielmi — would  be  published — upon  my  authority — in 
every  newspaper  in  all  the  cities  throughout  Italy,  with 
such  explanations  and  particulars  as  I  might  see  fit  to  in 
sert.  Also  that  the  name  of  Count  Nobili,  as  a  slanderer 
and  a  perjurer,  should  be  placarded  on  all  the  spare  walls 
of  Lucca,  at  Florence,  and  throughout  Tuscany.  The  sec 
retary  denies  any  knowledge  of  his  master's  present  ad- 


346  THE  ITALIANS. 

dress.     He  declared  that  be  was  unable,  therefore,  to  com 
municate  with  him. 

"  In  the  mean  time  a  knowledge  of  the  facts  has  spread 
through  this  city.  The  public  voice  is  with  us  to  a  man. 
Once  more  the  citizens  have  rallied  round  the  great  Guinigi 
name.  Crowds  assemble  daily  before  Count  Nobili's  palace. 
His  name  is  loudly  execrated  by  the  citizens.  Stones  have 
been  thrown,  and  windows  broken  ;  indeed,  there  are  threats 
of  burning  the  palace.  The  authorities  have  not  interfered. 
Count  Nobili  has  now,  I  hear,  returned  privately  to  Lucca. 
He  dares  not  show  himself,  or  he  would  be  stabbed ;  but 
Count  Nobili's  lawyer  has  had  a  conference  with  Maestro 
Guglielmi.  Cavaliere  Trenta  insisted  upon  being  present. 
This  was  against  my  will.  Cavaliere  Trenta  always1  says 
too  much.  Maestro  Guglielmi  gave  Count  Nobili's  lawyer 
three  days  to  decide.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  Signore 
Guglielmi  met  him  again.  Count  Nobili's  lawyer  declared 
that  with  the  utmost  difficulty  he  had  prevailed  upon  his 
client  to  make  good  the  contract  by  the  religious  ceremony 
of  marriage.  Let  every  thing  therefore  be  ready  for  the 
ceremony.  This  letter  is  private.  You  will  say  nothing 
further  to  my  niece  than  that  Count  Nobili  will  arrive  at 
Corellia  at  two  o'clock  the  day  after  to-morrow  to  marry 
her.  Farewell. 

"  Your  friend  and  well-wisher, 

"  MABCHESA  GUINIGI." 

The  morning  of  the  third  day  rose  gray  and  chill  at 
Corellia,  Much  rain  had  fallen  during  the  night,  and  a 
damp  mist  streamed  up  from  the  valleys,  shutting  out  the 
mighty  range  of  mountains.  In  the  plains  of  Pisa  and 
Florence  the  October  sun  still  blazed  glorious  as  ever  on 
the  lush  grass  and  flowery  meadows — on  the  sluggish 
streams  and  the  rich  blossoms.  There,  the  trees  still  rus 
tled  in  green  luxuriance,  to  soft  breezes  perfumed  with 


THE   CHURCH  AND   THE   LAW.  347 

orange-trees  and  roses.  But  in  the  mountain-fastnesses 
of  the  Apennines  autumn  had  come  on  apace.  Such  faded 
leaves  as  clung  to  the  shrubs  about  the  villa  were  drooping 
under  the  weight  of  the  rain-drops,  and  a  few  autumnal 
flowers  that  still  lit  up  the  broad  borders  lay  prostrate  on 
the  earth.  Each  tiny  stream  and  brawling  water-course — 
even  mere  little  humble  rills  that  dried  up  in  summer — 
now  rushed  downward  over  rocks  and  stones  blackened 
with  moss,  to  pour  themselves  into  the  river  Serchio.  In 
the  forest  the  turf  was  carpeted  with  yellow  leaves,  car 
ried  hither  and  thither  by  the  winds.  The  stems  and 
branches  of  the  chestnuts  ranged  themselves,  tier  above 
tier,  like  silver  pillars,  against  the  red  sandstone  of  the 
rocks.  The  year  was  dying  out,  and  with  the  year  all  Na 
ture  was  dying  out  likewise. 

Within  the  villa  a  table  was  spread  in  the  great  sala, 
with  wine  and  such  simple  refreshments  as  the  brief  notice 
allowed.  As  the  morning  advanced,  clouds  gathered  more 
thickly  over  the  heavens.  The  gloomy  daylight  coming  in 
at  the  doors,  and  through  the  many  windows,  caught  up 
no  ray  within.  The  vaguely-sailing  ships  painted  upon 
the  wall,  destined  never  to  find  a  port  in  those  unknown 
seas  for  which  their  sails  were  set — and  that  exasperating 
company  opposite,  that  through  all  changes  of  weal  or  woe 
danced  remorselessly  under  the  greenwood — were  shrouded 
in  misty  shadows. 

Not  a  sound  broke  the  silence — nothing  save  the  strik 
ing  of  the  clock  at  Corellia,  bringing  with  it  visions  of  the 
dark  old  church — the  kneeling  women — and  the  peace  of 
God  within.  Even  Argo  and  his  friends — Juno  and  Tuzzit 
and  the  bull-dog — were  mute. 

About  twelve  o'clock  the  marchesa  arrived  from  Lucca. 
In  her  company  came  the  Cavaliere  Trenta  and  Maestro 
Guglielmi.  Fra  Pacifico  was  in  waiting.  He  received  them 
with  grave  courtesy.  Adamo,  arrayed  by  Pipa  in  his  Sun- 


348  THE  ITALIANS. 

day  clothes,  with  a  flower  behind  his  ear,  and  Silvestro, 
stood  uncovered  at  the  entrance.  Once,  and  once  only, 
Silvestro  abstained  from  addressing  his  mistress  with  his 
usual  question  about  her  health. 

Maestro  Guglielmi  was  formally  presented  to  Fra  Paci- 
fico  by  the  punctilious  cavaliere,  now  restored  to  his  usual 
health  and  spirits.  The  cavaliere  had  arrayed  himself  in 
his  official  uniform — dark-purple  velvet  embroidered  Avith 
gold.  Not  having  worn  the  uniform,  however,  for  more 
than  twenty  years,  the  coat  was  much  too  small  for  him. 
In  his  hand  he  carried  a  white  staff  of  office.  This  served 
him  as  a  stick.  Coming  up  from  Lucca,  the  cavaliere  had 
reflected  that  on  him  solely  must  rest  the  care  of  impart 
ing  some  show  of  dignity  to  the  ceremony  about  to  take 
place.  He  resolved  that  he  would  be  equal  to  the  occa 
sion,  whatever  might  occur. 

There  was  a  strange  hush  upon  each  one  of  the  little 
group  met  in  the  sala.  Each  was  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts.  The  marriage  about  to  take  place  was  to  the 
marchesa  the  resurrection  of  the  Guinigi  name.  To  Fra 
Pacifico  it  was  the  possible  rescue  of  Enrica  from  a  life  of 
suffering,  perhaps  an  early  death.  To  Guglielmi  it  was 
the  triumph  of  the  keen  lawyer,  who  had  tracked  and  pur 
sued  his  prey  until  that  prey  had  yielded.  To  the  cavaliere 
it  was  simply  an  act  of  justice  which  Count  Nobili  owed 
to  Enrica,  after  the  explanations  he  (Trenta)  had  given 
to  him  through  his  lawyer,  respecting  Count  Marescotti — 
such  an  act  of  justice  as  the  paternal  government  of  his 
master  the  Duke  of  Lucca  would  have  forced,  upon  the 
strength  of  his  absolute  prerogative,  irrespective  of  law. 
The  only  person  not  outwardly  affected  was  the  marchesa. 
The  marchesa  had  said  nothing  since  her  arrival,  but  there 
was  a  haughty  alacrity  of  step  and  movement,  as  she  walked 
down  the  sala  toward  the  door  of  her  own  apartment,  that 
spoke  more  than  words. 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW.  340 

No  sooner  had  the  sound  of  her  closing  door  died  away 
in  the  echoes  of  the  sala  than  Trenta,  with  forward  bows 
both  to  Fra  Pacifico  and  the  lawyer,  requested  permission 
to  leave  them,  in  order  to  visit  Enrica.  Guglielmi  and 
Fra  Pacifico  were  now  alone.  Guglielmi  gave  a  cautious 
glance  round,  then  walked  up  to  the  table,  and  poured  out 
a  tumbler  of  wine,  which  he  swallowed  slowly.  As  he  did 
so,  he  was  engaged  in  closely  scrutinizing  Fra  Pacifico, 
who,  full  of  anxiety  as  to  what  was  about  to  happen,  stood 
lost  in  thought. 

Maestro  Guglielmi,  whose  age  might  be  about  forty, 
was  a  man,  once  seen,  not  easily  forgotten — a  tall,  slight 
man  of  quick  subtile  movements,  that  betrayed  the  devour 
ing  activity  within.  Maestro  Guglielmi  had  a  perfectly 
colorless  face,  a  prominent,  eager  nose,  thin  lips,  that  per 
petually  unclosed  to  a  ghostly  smile  in  which  the  other 
features  took  no  part ;  a  brow  already  knitted  with  those 
fine  wrinkles  indicative  of  constant  study,  and  overhanging 
eyebrows  that  framed  a  pair  of  eyes  that  read  you  like  a 
book.  It  would  have  been  a  bold  man  who,  with  those 
eyes  fixed  on  him,  would  have  told  a  lie  to  Maestro  Gugli 
elmi,  advocate  in  the  High  Court  of  Lucca.  If  any  man 
had  so  lied,  those  eyes  would  have  gathered  up  the  light, 
and  flashed  it  forth  again  in  lightnings  that  might  consume 
him.  That  they  were  dark  and  flaming,  and  greatly 
dreaded  by  all  on  whom  Guglielmi  fixed  them  in  opposi 
tion,  was  generally  admitted  by  his  legal  compeers. 

"  Reverend  sir,"  began  Maestro  Guglielmi,  blandly, 
stepping  up  to  where  the  priest  stood  a  little  apart,  and 
speaking  in  a  metallic  voice  audible  in  any  court  of  law,  be 
it  ever  so  closely  packed — "  it  gratifies  me  much  that 
chance  has  so  ordered  it  that  we  two  are  left  alone."  Gu 
glielmi  took  out  his  watch.  "  We  have  a  good  half-hour 
to  spare." 

Fra  Pacifico  turned,  and  for  the  first  time  contemplated 


350  THE  ITALIANS. 

the  lawyer  attentively.  As  he  did  so,  he  noted  with  sur 
prise  the  power  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  earnestly  desire  some  conversation  with  you,"  con 
tinued  Guglielmi,  the  semblance  of  a  smile  flitting  over  his 
hard  face.  "  Can  we  speak  here  securely  ?  "  And  the 
lawyer  glanced  round  at  the  various  doors,  and  particularly 
to  an  open  one,  which  led  from  the  sala  to  the  chapel,  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  house.  Fra  Pacifico  moved  forward 
and  closed  it. 

"  You  are  quite  safe — say  what  you  please,"  he  answered, 
bluntly.  His  frank  nature  rose  involuntarily  against  the 
cunning  of  Guglielmi's  look  and  manner.  "  We  have  no 
spies  here." 

"Pardon  me,  I  did  not  mean  to  insinuate  that.  But 
what  I  have  to  say  is  strictly  private." 

Fra  Pacifico  eyed  Guglielmi  with  no  friendly  expres 
sion. 

"  I  know  you  well  by  repute,  reverend  sir  " — with  one 
comprehensive  glance  Guglielmi  seemed  to  take  in  Fra 
Pacifico  mentally  and  physically — "  therefore  it  is  that  I 
address  myself  to  you." 

The  priest  crossed  his  arms  and  bowed. 

"  The  marchesa  has  confided  to  me  the  charge  of  this 
most  delicate  case.  Hitherto  I  have  conducted  it  with  suc 
cess.  It  is  not  my  habit  to  fail.  I  have  succeeded  in  con 
vincing  Count  Nobili's  lawyer,  and  through  him  Count  No- 
bili  himself,  that  it  would  be  suicidal  to  his  interests  should 
he  not  make  good  the  marriage-contract  with  the  Marchesa 
Guinigi's  niece.  If  Count  Nobili  refuses,  he  must  leave  the 
country.  He  has  established  himself  in  Lucca,  and  desires, 
as  I  understand,  to  remain  there.  My  noble  client  has 
done  me  the  honor  to  inform  me  that  she  is  acquainted 
with,  and  can  prove,  some  act  of  villainy  committed  by  his 
father,  who,  though  he  ended  his  life  as  an  eminent  banker 
at  Florence,  began  it  as  a  money-lender  at  Leghorn.  Count 


THE   CHURCH  AND   THE   LAW.  351 

Nobili's  father  filled  in  a  blank  check  which  a  client  had 
incautiously  left  in  his  hands,  to  an  enormous  amount,  or 
something  of  that  kind,  I  believe.  I  refused  to  notice  this 
circumstance  legally,  feeling  sure  that  we  were  strong 
enough  without  it.  I  was  also  sure  that  giving  publicity 
to  such  a  fact  would  only  prejudice  the  position  of  the  fu 
ture  husband  of  the  marchesa's  niece.  To  return.  Fortu 
nately,  Count  Nobili's  lawyer  saw  the  case  as  I  put  it  to  him. 
Count  Nobili  will,  undoubtedly,  be  here  at  two  o'clock." 
Again  the  lawj'er  took  out  his  watch,  looked  at  it,  and  re 
placed  it  with  rapidity.  "  A  good  deal  of  hard  work  is 
comprised  in  that  sentence,  *  Count  Nobili  will  be  here  ! ' ' 
Again  there  was  the  ghost  of  a  smile.  "  Lawyers  must  not 
always  be  judged  by  the  result.  In  this  case,  however,  the 
result  is  favorable,  eminently  favorable." 

Fra  Pacifico's  face  deepened  into  a  look  of  disgust,  but 
he  said  nothing. 

"  Count  Nobili  once  here  and  joined  to  the  young  lady 
by  the  Church,  we  must  keep  him.  The  spouses  must  pass 
twenty-four  hours  under  the  same  roof  to  complete  and 
legalize  the  marriage.  I  am  here  officially,  to  see  that 
Count  Nobili  attends  at  the  time  appointed  for  the  cere 
mony.  In  reality,  I  am  here  to  see  that  Count  Nobili  re 
mains.  This  must  be  no  formal  union.  They  must  be 
bound  together  irrevocably.  You  must  help  me,  reverend 
sir." 

Maestro  Guglielmi  turned  quickly  upon  Fra  Pacifico. 
His  eyes  ran  all  over  him.  The  priest  drew  back. 

"  I  have  already  stretched  my  conscience  to  the  utmost 
for  the  sake  of  the  lady.  I  can  do  nothing  more." 

"  But,  my  father,  it  is  surely  to  the  lady's  advantage 
that,  if  the  count  marries  her,  they  should  live  together, 
that  heirs  should  be  born  to  them,"  pleaded  Guglielmi  in 
a  most  persuasive  voice.  "  If  the  count  separates  from  his 
wife  after  the  ceremony,  how  can  this  be  ?  We  do  not  live 


352  TEE  ITALIANS. 

in  the  days  of  miracles,  though  we  have  an  infallible  pope. 
Eh,  my  father  ?  Not  in  the  days  of  miracles."  Guglielmi 
gave  an  ironical  laugh,  and  his  eyes  twinkled.  "  Besides, 
there  is  the  civil  ceremony." 

"  The  Sindaco  of  Corellia  can  be  present,  if  you  please, 
for  the  civil  marriage." 

"  Unfortunately,  there  is  no  time  to  call  the  sindaco 
now,"  replied  Guglielmi.  "  If  Count  Nobili  remains  the 
night  in  company  with  his  bride,  we  shall  have  no  difficulty 
about  the  civil  marriage  to-morrow.  Count  Nobili  will  not 
object  then.  Not  likely." 

The  lawyer  gave  a  harsh,  cynical  laugh  that  grated  offen 
sively  upon  the  priest's  ear.  Fra  Pacifico  began  to  think 
Maestro  Guglielmi  intolerable. 

"  That  is  your  affair.  I  will  undertake  no  further  re 
sponsibility,"  responded  Fra  Pacifico,  doggedly. 

"  You  cannot  mean,  my  father,  that  you  will  not  help 
me  ?  "  And  Guglielmi  contemplated  Fra  Pacifico  fixedly 
with  all  the  lightnings  he  could  bring  to  bear  upon  him. 
To  his  amazement,  he  produced  no  effect  whatever.  Fra 
Pacifico  remained  silent.  Altogether  this  was  a  priest  dif 
ferent  from  any  he  had  ever  met  with — Guglielmi  hated 
priests — he  began  to  be  interested  in  Fra  Pacifico. 

"  Well,  well,"  was  Guglielmi's  reply,  with  an  aspect  of 
intense  chagrin,  "  I  had  better  hopes.  Your  position,  Fra 
Pacifico,  as  a  peace-maker — as  a  friend  of  the  family — how 
ever  " — here  the  lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  his 
eyes  wandered  restlessly  up  and  down  the  room — "  however, 
at  least  permit  me  to  tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do." 

Fra  Pacifico  bowed  coldly. 

"  As  you  please,"  was  his  reply. 

Maestro  Guglielmi  advanced  close  to  Fra  Pacifico,  and 
lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper. 

"  The  circumstances  attending  this  marriage  are  becom 
ing  very  public.  My  client,  the  Marchesa  Guinigi,  considers 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW.  353 

her  position  so  exalted  she  dares  to  court  publicity.  She 
forgets  we  are  not  in  the  middle  ages.  Ha !  ha  ! "  and 
Guglielmi  showed  his  teeth  in  a  smile  that  was  nothing  but 
a  grin — "  publicity  will  be  fatal  to  the  young  lady.  This  the 
marchesa  fails  to  see ;  but  I  see  it,  and  you  see  it,  my 
father." 

Fra  Pacifico  shook  himself  all  over  as  though  silently 
rejecting  any  possible  participation  in  Maestro  Guglielmi's 
arguments.  Guglielmi  quite  understood  the  gesture,  but 
continued,  perfectly  at  his  ease : 

"  The  high  rank  of  the  young  lady — the  wealth  of  the 
count — a  marriage-contract  broken — an  illustrious  name 
libeled — Count  Nobili,  a  well-known  member  of  the  Jock 
ey  Club,  in  concealment — the  Lucchese  populace  roused  to 
fury — all  these  details  have  reached  the  capital.  A  certain 
royal  personage  " — here  Guglielmi  drew  himself  up  pom 
pously,  and  waved  his  hand,  as  was  his  wont  in  the  fervor 
of  a  grand  peroration — "  a  certain  royal  personage,  who  has 
reasons  of  his  own  for  avoiding  unnecessary  scandal  (pos 
sibly  because  the  royal  personage  causes  so  much  himself, 
and  considers  scandal  his  own  prerogative)" — Guglielmi 
emphasized  his  joke  with  such  scintillation  as  would  meta 
phorically  have  taken  any  other  man  than  Fra  Pacifico  off 
his  legs — even  Fra  Pacifico  stared  at  him  with  astonish 
ment — "  a  certain  royal  personage,  I  say — earnestly  desires 
that  this  affair  should  be  amicably  arranged — that  the  re 
publican  party  should  not  have  the  gratification  of  gloating 
over  a  sensational  trial  between  two  noble  families  (the 
republicans  would  make  terrible  capital  out  of  it)— a  cer 
tain  personage  desires,  I  say,  that  the  affair  should  be  ar 
ranged — amicably  arranged — not  only  by  a  formal  marriage 
— the  formal  marriage,  of  course,  we  positively  insist  on — 
but  by  a  complete  reconciliation  between  the  parties.  If 
this  should  not  be  so,  the  present  ceremony  will  infallibly 
lead  to  a  lawsuit  respecting  the  civil  marriage — the  domi- 


354  THE  ITALIANS. 

cile — and  the  cohabitation — which  it  is  distinctly  under 
stood  that  Count  Nobili  will  refuse,  and  that  the  Marchesa 
Guinigi,  acting  for  her  niece,  will  maintain.  It  is  essen 
tial,  therefore,  that  more  than  the  formal  ceremony  shall 
take  place.  It  is  essential  that  the  subsequent  cohabita 
tion—" 

"  I  see  your  drift,"  interrupted  downright  Fra  Pacifico, 
in  his  blunt  way;  "no  need  to  go  into  further  details." 

Spite  of  himself,  Fra  Pacifico  had  become  interested  in 
the  narrative.  The  cunning  lawyer  intended  that  Fra  Pa 
cifico  should  become  so  interested.  What  was  the  strong- 
fisted,  simple-hearted  priest  beside  such  a  sophist  as  Maes 
tro  Guglielmi ! 

"  The  royal  personage  in  question,"  continued  Guglielmi, 
who  read  in  Fra  Pacifico's  frank  countenance  that  he  had 
conquered  his  repugnance,  "has  done  me  the  high  honor 
of  communicating  to  me  his  august  sentiments.  I  have 
pledged  myself  to  do  all  I  can  to  prevent  the  catastrophe 
of  law.  My  official  capacity,  however,  ends  with  Count 
Nobili's  presence  here  at  the  appointed  hour." 

At  the  word  "  hour  "  Guglielmi  hastily  pulled  out  his 
watch. 

"  Only  a  few  minutes  more,"  he  muttered.  "  But  this 
is  not  all.  Listen,  my  father." 

He  gave  a  hasty  glance  round,  then  put  his  lips  close 
to  the  priest's  ear. 

"  If  I  succeed — may  I  say  we?  "  he  added,  insinuating 
ly — "if  we  succeed,  a  canonry  will  be  offered  to  you,  Fra 
Pacifico ;  and  I "  (Guglielmi's  speaking  eyes  became  brill 
iantly  emphatic  now) — "I  shall  be  appointed  judge  of  the 
tribunal  at  Lucca." 

"  Pshaw  1 "  cried  Fra  Pacifico,  retreating  from  him  with 
an  expression  of  blank  disappointment.  "la  canon  at  Luc 
ca  !  If  that  is  to  be  the  consequence  of  success,  you  must 
depend  on  yourself,  Signore  Guglielmi.  I  decline  to  help 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW.  355 

you.  I  would  not  be  a  canon  at  Lucca  if  the  King  of  Italy 
asked  me  in  person." 

Guglielmi,  whose  tactics  were,  if  he  failed,  never  to 
show  it,  smiled  his  falsest  smile. 

"Noble  disinterestedness !"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  his 
delicate  hand  across  his  brow.  "  Nothing  could  have  raised 
your  reverence  higher  in  my  esteem  than  this  refusal ! " 

To  conceal  his  real  annoyance,  Maestro  Guglielmi  turned 
away  and  coughed.  It  was  a  diplomatic  cough,  ready  on 
all  emergencies.  Again  he  consulted  his  watch. 

"  Five  minutes  more,  then  we  must  assemble  at  the 
altar.  A  fine  will  be  levied  upon  Count  Nobili,  if  he  is  not 
punctual." 

"  If  it  is  so  near  the  time,  I  must  beg  you  to  excuse 
me,"  said  Fra  Pacifico,  glad  to  escape. 

Fra  Pacifico,  walked  rapidly  toward  the  door  opening 
into  the  corridor  leading  to  the  chapel.  His  retreating  fig 
ure  was  followed  by  a  succession  of  fireworks  from  Gugliel- 
mi's  eyes,  indicative  of  indignation  and  contempt. 

"  He  who  sleeps  catches  no  fish,"  the  lawyer  muttered 
to  himself,  biting  his  lips.  "  But  the  priest  will  help  me 
— spite  of  himself,  he  will  help  me.  A  health  to  Holy 
Mother  Church !  She  would  not  do  much  if  all  her  minis 
ters  wrere  like  this  country  clod.  He  is  without  ambition. 
He  has  quite  fatigued  me." 

Saying  this,  Maestro  Guglielmi  poured  out  another 
glass  of  wine.  He  critically  examined  the  wine  in  the 
light  before  putting  it  to  his  lips ;  then  he  swallowed  it 
with  an  expression  of  approbation. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE     HOUR    STRIKES. 

THE  chapel  was  approached  by  a  door  communicating 
with  the  corridor.  (There  was  another  entrance  from  the 
garden ;  at  this  entrance  Adamo  was  stationed.)  It  was 
narrow  and  lofty,  more  like  a  gallery  than  a  chapel,  except 
that  the  double  windows  at  either  end  were  arched  and 
filled  with  stained  glass.  The  altar  was  placed  in  a  recess 
facing  the  door  opening  from  the  corridor.  It  was  of  dark 
marble  raised  on  steps,  and  was  backed  by  a  painting  too 
much  blackened  by  smoke  to  be  distinguished.  Within 
the  rails  stood  Fra  Pacifico,  arrayed  in  a  vestment  of  white 
and  gold.  The  grand  outline  of  his  tall  figure  filled  the 
front  of  the  altar.  No  one  would  have  recognized  the  par 
ish  priest  in  the  stately  ecclesiastic  who  wore  his  robes 
with  so  much  dignity.  Beside  Fra  Pacifico  was  Angelo 
transformed  into  an  acolyte,  wearing  a  linen  surplice — An 
gelo  awed  into  perfect  propriety — swinging  a  silver  censer, 
and  only  to  be  recognized  by  the  twinkling  of  his  wicked 
eyes  (not  even  Fra  Pacifico  could  tame  them).  To  the 
right  of  the  altar  stood  the  marchesa.  Maestro  Guglielmi, 
tablets  in  hand,  was  beside  her.  Behind,  at  a  respectful 
distance,  appeared  Silvestro,  gathered  up  into  the  smallest 
possible  compass. 


THE   HOUR  STRIKES.  357 

As  the  slow  moments  passed,  all  stood  so  motionless — 
all  save  Angelo,  swinging  the  silver  censer — they  might 
have  passed  for  a  sculptured  group  upon  a  marble  tomb. 
One — two — struck  from  the  old  clock  in  the  Lombard 
Tower  at  Corellia.  At  the  last  stroke  the  door  from  the 
garden  was  thrown  open.  Count  Nobili  stood  in  the  door 
way.  At  the  moment  of  Count  Nobili's  appearance 
Maestro  Guglielmi  drew  out  his  watch  ;  then  he  proceeded 
to  note  upon  his  tablets  that  Count  Nobili,  having  observed 
the  appointed  time,  was  not  subject  to  a  fine. 

Count  Nobili  paused  on  the  threshold,  then  he  advanced 
to  the  altar.  That  he  had  come  in  haste  was  apparent. 
His  dress  was  travel-stained  and  dusty ;  the  locks  of  his 
abundant  chestnut  hair  matted  and  rough ;  his  whole  ap 
pearance  wild  and  disordered.  All  the  outward  polish  of 
the  man  was  gone ;  the  happy  smile  contagious  in  its 
brightness ;  the  pleasant  curl  of  the  upper  lip  raising  the 
fair  mustache ;  the  kindling  eye  so  capable  of  tenderness. 
His  expression  was  of  a  man  undergoing  a  terrible  ordeal ; 
defiance,  shame,  anger,  contended  on  his  face. 

There  was  something  in  the  studied  negligence  of 
Count  Nobili's  appearance  that  irritated  the  marchesa  to 
the  last  degree  of  endurance.  She  bridled  with  rage,  and 
exchanged  a  significant  glance  with  Guglielmi. 

Footsteps  were  now  heard  coming  from  the  sala.  It 
was  Enrica,  led  by  the  cavaliere.  Enrica  was  whiter  than 
her  bridal  veil.  She  had  suffered  Pipa  to  array  her  as  she 
pleased,  without  a  word.  Her  hair  was  arranged  in  a  cor 
onet  upon  her  head ;  a  whole  sheaf  of  golden  curls  hung 
down  from  it  behind.  There  were  the  exquisite  symmetry 
of  form,  the  natural  grace,  the  dreamy  beauty — all  the  soft 
harmony  of  color  upon  her  oval  face — but  the  freshness 
of  girlhood  was  gone.  Enrica  had  made  a  desperate  effort 
to  be  calm.  Nobili  was  under  the  same  roof — in  the  same 
room — Nobili  was  beside  her.  Would  he  not  show  some 


358  THE   ITALIANS. 

sign  that  he  still  loved  her  ? — Else  why  had  he  come  ? — 
One  glance  at  him  was  enough.  Oh  !  he  was  changed  ! — 
She  could  not  bear  it.  Enrica  would  have  fled  had  not 
Trenta  held  her.  The  marchesa,  too,  advanced  a  step  or 
two,  and  cast  upon  her  a  look  so  menacing  that  it  filled 
her  with  terror.  Trembling  all  over,  Enrica  clung  to  the 
cavaliere.  He  led  her  gently  forward,  and  placed  ,her  be 
side  Count  Nobili  standing  at  the  altar.  Thus  unsupport 
ed,  Enrica  tottered — she  seemed  about  to  fall.  No  hand 
was  stretched  out  to  help  her. 

Nobili  had  turned  visibly  pale  as  Enrica  entered.  His 
face  was  averted.  The  witnesses,  Adamo  and  Silvestro, 
ranged  themselves  on  either  side.  The  marchesa  and 
Maestro  Guglielmi  drew  nearer  to  the  altar.  Angelo 
waved  the  censer,  walking  to  and  fro  before  the  rails. 
Pipa  peeped  in  at  the  open  doorway.  Her  eyes  were  red 
with  weeping.  Pipa  looked  round  aghast. 

"  What  a  marriage  was  this  !  More  like  a  death  than 
a  marriage !  She  would  not  have  married  so — not  if  it 
had  cost  her  her  life — no  music,  no  rose-leaves,  no  dance, 
no  wine.  None  had  even  changed  their  clothes  but  the 
cavaliere  and  the  signorina.  And  a  bridegroom  like  that ! 
— a  statue — not  a  living  man !  And  the  signorina — 
poverina — hardly  able  to  stand  upon  her  feet !  The  signo 
rina  would  be  sure  to  faint,  she  was  so  weak." 

Pipa  had  to  muffle  her  face  in  her  handkerchief  to  drown 
her  sobs.  Then  Fra  Pacifico's  impressive  voice  broke  the 
silence  with  the  opening  words  of  exhortation. 

"  Deus  Israel  sit  vobiscum." 

"  Gloria  patri,"  was  the  response  in  Angelo's  childish 
treble. 

Enrica  and  Nobili  now  knelt  side  by  side.  Two  lighted 
tapers,  typical  of  chaste  love,  were  placed  on  the  floor  be 
side  them  on  either  hand.  The  image  of  the  Virgin  on  the 
altar  was  uncovered.  The  tall  candles  flickered.  Enrica 


THE  HOUR  STRIKES.  359 

and  Nobili  knelt  side  by  side — the  man  who  had  ceased  to 
love,  and  the  woman  who  still  loved,  but  who  dared  not 
confess  her  love  ! 

As  Fra  Pacifico  proceeded,  Count  Nobili's  face  hard 
ened.  "Was  not  the  basilisk  eye  of  the  marchesa  upon 
him  ?  Her  lawyer,  too,  taking  notes  of  every  look  and 
gesture  ? 

"  Mario  Nobili,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  be  thy 
wife  ? "  asked  the  priest.  Turning  from  the  altar,  Fra 
Pacifico  faced  Count  Nobili  as  he  put  this  question. 

A  hot  flush  overspread  Nobili's  face.  He  opened  his 
lips  to  speak,  but  no  words  were  audible.  "Would  the 
words  not  come,  or  would  Nobili  at  the  last  moment  refuse 
to  utter  them  ? 

"  Mario  Nobili,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  be  thy 
wedded  wife  ? "  sternly  repeated  Fra  Pacifico,  fixing  his 
dark  eyes  upon  him. 

"  I  will,"  answered  Nobili.  Whatever  his  feelings  were, 
Nobili  had  mastered  them. 

For  an  instant  Nobili's  eye  met  Enrica's.  He  turned 
hastily  away.  Enrica  sighed.  Whatever  hopes  had  buoyed 
her  up  were  gone.  Nobili  had  turned  away  from  her ! 

Fra  Pacifico  placed  Enrica's  hand  in  that  of  Nobili. 
Poor  little  hand — how  it  trembled !  Ah !  would  Nobili 
not  recall  how  fondly  he  had  clasped  it  ?  What  kisses  he 
had  showered  upon  each  rosy  little  finger  !  So  lately,  too  ! 
No — Nobili  is  impassive ;  not  a  feature  of  his  face  changes. 
But  the  contact  of  Nobili's  beloved  hand  utterly  overcame 
Enrica.  The  limit  of  her  endurance  was  reached.  Again 
the  shadow  of  death  was  upon  her — the  shadow  that  had 
led  her  to  the  dark  abyss. 

When  Nobili  dropped  her  hand ;  Enrica  leaned  forward 
upon  the  edge  of  the  marble  rails.  She  hid  her  head  upon 
her  arms.  Her  long  hair,  escaped  from  the  fastening, 
shrouded  her  face. 


3GO  THE   ITALIANS. 

"  Benedicat  vos  omnipotens  Deus ! "  spoke  the  deep 
voice  of  Fra  Pacifico. 

He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  The  address  followed. 
The  priest's  last  words  died  away  in  sonorous  echoes.  It 
was  done.  They  were  man  and  wife ! 

Fra  Pacifico  had  by  no  outward  sign  betrayed  what  he 
felt  during  the  discharge  of  his  office  ;  but  his  conscience 
sorely  smote  him.  He  asked  himself  with  dismay  if,  in 
helping  Enrica,  he  had  not  committed  a  mortal  sin  ?  Hith 
erto  he  had  defended  Count  Nobili ;  now  his  whole  soul 
rose  against  him.  "  Would  Nobili  say  nothing  in  justifica 
tion  ?  "  Spite  of  himself,  Fra  Pacifico's  fists  clinched  them 
selves  under  his  vestments. 

But  Nobili  was  about  to  speak.  He  gave  a  hurried 
glance  round  the  circle — upon  Enrica'  kneeling  at  the  altar ; 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  forces  himself  to  do  a  hateful 
penance,  he  broke  silence. 

"  In  the  presence  of  the  blessed  sacrament " — his  voice 
was  thick  and  hoarse — "  I  declare  that,  after  the  explana 
tions  given,  I  withdraw  my  accusations.  I  hold  that  lady, 
now  Countess  Nobili " — and  he  pointed  to  the  motionless 
mass  of  white  drapery  kneeling  beside  him — "  I  hold  that 
lady  innocent  in  thought  and  life.  But  I  include  her  in  the 
just  indignation  with  which  I  regard  this  house  and  its 
mistress,  whose  agent  she  has  made  herself  to  deceive  me." 

Count  Nobili's  kindling  eye  rested  on  the  marchesa. 
She,  in  her  turn,  shot  a  furious  glance  at  the  cavaliere. 

" '  Explanations  given ! '  Then  Trenta  had  dared  to  ex 
onerate  Enrica  !  It  was  degrading  ! " 

"  This  reparation  made,"  continued  Count  Nobili — 
"  my  name  and  hand  given  to  her  by  the  Church — honor  is 
satisfied :  I  will  never  live  with  her  !  " 

Was  there  no  mercy  in  the  man  as  he  pronounced  these 
last  words  ?  No  appeal  ?  No  mercy  ?  Or  had  the  mar 
chesa  driven  him  to  bay  ? 


THE   HOUR   STRIKES.  361 

The  marchesa ! — Nobili's  last  words  had  shattered  the 
whole  fabric  of  her  ambition  !  Never  for  a  moment  had 
the  marchesa  doubted  that,  the  marriage  once  over,  Nobili 
would  have  seriously  refused  the  splendid  position  she 
offered  him.  Look  at  her ! — She  cannot  conceal  her  con 
sternation. 

"  I  invite  you,  therefore,  Maestro  Guglielmi " — the  stud 
ied  calmness  of  Nobili's  manner  belied  the  agitation  of  his 
voice  and  aspect — "you,  Maestro  Guglielmi,  who  have 
been  called  here  expressly  to  insult  me — I  invite  you  to 
advise  the  Marchesa  Guinigi  to  accept  what  I  am  willing  to 
offer." 

"  To  insult  you,  Count  Nobili  ?  "  exclaimed  Guglielmi, 
looking  round.  (Guglielmi  had  turned  aside  to  write  a  few 
hurried  words  upon  his  tablets,  torn  out  the  leaf,  and 
slipped  it  into  the  marchesa's  hand.  So  rapidly  was  this 
done,  no  one  had  perceived  it.)  "  To  insult  you  ?  Surely 
not  to  insult  you !  Allow  me  to  explain." 

"  Silence  ! "  thundered  Fra  Pacifico  standing  before  the 
altar.  "  In  the  name  of  God,  silence  !  Let  those  who  de 
sire  to  wrangle  choose  a  fitter  place.  There  can  be  no  con 
tentions  in  the  presence  of  the  sacrament.  The  declara 
tion  of  Count  Nobili's  belief  in  the  virtue  of  his  wife  I  per 
mitted.  I  listened  to  what  followed,  praying  that,  if  human 
aid  failed,  God,  hearing  his  blasphemy  against  the  holy 
sacrament  of  marriage,  might  touch  his  heart.  In  the 
hands  of  God  I  leave  him  ! " 

Having  thus  spoken,  Fra  Pacifico  replaced  the  Host  in 
the  ciborium,  and,  assisted  by  Angelo,  proceeded  to  divest 
himself  of  his  robes,  which  he  laid  one  by  one  upon  the 
altar. 

At  this  instant  the  marchesa  rose  and  left  the  chapel. 

Count  Nobili's  eyes  followed  her  with  a  look  of  absolute 

loathing.     Without  one  glance  at  Enrica,  still  immovable, 

her  head  buried  on  her  arms,  Nobili  left  the  altar.     He 

16 


362  THE   ITALIANS. 

walked  slowly  to  the  window  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
chapel.  Turning  his  back  upon  all  present,  he  took  from 
his  pocket  a  parchment,  which  he  perused  with  deep  atten 
tion. 

All  this  time  Cavaliere  Trenta,  radiant  in  his  official 
costume,  his  white  staff  of  office  in  his  right  hand,  had  re 
mained  standing  behind  Enrica.  Each  instant  he  expected 
to  see  her  rise,  when  it  would  devolve  on  him  to  lead  her 
away ;  but  she  had  not  stirred.  Now  the  cavaliere  felt 
that  the  fitting  moment  had  fully  come  for  Enrica  to  with 
draw.  Indeed,  he  wondered  within  himself  why  she  had 
remained  so  long. 

"  Enrica,  rise,  my  child,"  he  said,  softly.  "  There  is 
nothing  more  to  be  done.  The  ceremony  is  over." 

Still  Enrica  did  not  move.  Fra  Pacifico  leaned  over 
the  altar-rails,  and  gently  raised  her  head.  It  dropped 
back  upon  his  hand — Enrica  had  fainted. 

This  discovery  caused  the  most  terrible  commotion. 
Pipa,  who  had  watched  every  thing  from  the  door,  screamed 
and  ran  forward.  Fra  Pacifico  was  bending  over  the  pros 
trate  girl,  supported  in  the  arms  of  the  cavaliere. 

"  I  feared  this,"  Fra  Pacifico  whispered.  "Thank  God, 
I  believe  it  is  only  momentary !  We  must  carry  her  in 
stantly  to  her  room.  I  will  take  care  of  her." 

"  Poor,  broken  flower  ! "  cried  Trenta,  "  who  will  raise 
thee  up  ?  "  His  voice  came  thick,  struggling  with  sobs. 
"  Can  you  see  that  unmoved,  Count  Nobili  ? "  Trenta 
pointed  to  the  retreating  figure  of  Fra  Pacifico  bearing  En 
rica  in  his  arms. 

At  the  sound  of  Trenta's  voice,  Count  Nobili  started 
and  turned  around.  Enrica  had  already  disappeared. 

"  You  will  soon  give  her  another  bridegroom — he  will 
not  leave  her  as  you  have  done — that  bridegroom  will  be 
Death  !  To-day  it  is  the  bridal-veil — to-morrow  it  will  be 
the  shroud.  Not  a  month  ago  she  lay  upon  what  might 


THE  HOUR  STRIKES.  363 

have  been  her  death-bed.  Your  infamous  letter  did  that ! " 
The  remembrance  of  that  letter  roused  the  cavaliere  out  of 
himself ;  he  cared  not  what  he  said.  "  That  letter  almost 
killed  her.  Would  to  God  she  had  died  !  What  has  she 
done?  She  is  an  angel!  We  were  all  here  when  you 
signed  the  contract.  Why  did  you  break  it  ?  "  Trenta's 
shrill  voice  had  risen  into  a  kind  of  wail.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  doubt  what  I  told  you  at  Lucca  ?  I  swear  to  you  that 
Enrica  never  knew  that  she  was  offered  in  marriage  to 
Count  Marescotti — I  swear  it ! — I  did  it — it  was  my  fault. 
I  persuaded  the  marchesa.  It  was  I.  Enrica  and  Count 
Marescotti  never  met  but  in  my  presence.  And  you  re 
venge  yourself  on  her  ?  If  you  had  the  heart  of  a  man,  you 
could  not  do  it ! " 

"  It  is  because  I  have  the  heart  of  a  man,  I  will  not 
suffer  degradation !  "  cried  Nobili.  "  It  is  because  I  have 
the  heart  of  a  man,  I  will  not  sink  into  an  unworthy  tool ! 
This  is  why  I  refuse  to  live  with  her.  She  is  one  of  a 
vile  conspiracy.  She  has  joined  with  the  marchesa  against 
me.  I  have  been  forced  to  marry  her.  I  will  not  live  with 
her!" 

Count  Nobili  stopped  suddenly.  An  agonized  expres 
sion  came  into  his  face. 

"  I  screened  her  in  the  first  fury  of  my  anger — I 
screened  her  when  I  believed  her  guilty.  Now  it  is  too 
late — God  help  her ! "  He  turned  abruptly  away. 

Cavaliere  Trenta,  whose  vehemence  had  died  away  as 
stiddenly  as  it  had  risen,  crept  to  the  door.  He  threw  up 
his  hands  in  despair.  There  was  no  help  for  Enrica ! 

All  this  time  Maestro  Guglielmi's  keen  eyes  had  noted 
every  thing.  He  was  on  the  lookout  for  evidence.  Per 
sons  under  strong  emotions,  as  a  rule,  commit  themselves. 
Count  Nobili  was  young  and  hot-headed.  Count  Nobili 
would  probably  commit  himself.  Up  to  this  time  Count 
Nobili  had  said  nothing,  however,  that  could  be  made  use 


364  THE  ITALIANS. 

of.  Guglielmi's  ready  brain  worked  incessantly.  If  he 
could  carry  out  the  plan  he  had  formed,  he  might  yet  be  a 
judge  within  the  year.  Already  Guglielmi  feels  the  touch 
of  the  soft  fur  upon  his  official  robes ! 

After  the  cavaliere's  departure,  Guglielmi  advanced. 
He  had  been  standing  so  entirely  concealed  in  the  shadow 
thrown  by  the  altar,  that  Nobili  had  forgotten  his  presence. 
Nobili  now  stared  at  him  in  angry  surprise. 

"  With  your  permission,"  said  the  lawyer,  with  a  low 
bow,  accosting  Nobili,  "  I  hope  to  convince  you  how  much 
you  have  wronged  me  by  your  accusation." 

"  What  accusation  ? "  demanded  the  count,  drawing 
back  toward  the  window.  "  I  do  not  understand  you." 

Guglielmi  was  the  marchesa's  adviser;  Count  Nobili 
hated  him. 

"  Your  accusation  that '  I  am  here  to  insult  you.'  If 
you  will  do  me  the  honor,  Count  Nobili,  to  speak  to  me  in 
private  " — Guglielmi  glanced  at  Silvestro,  Adamo,  and  An- 
gelo,  peering  out  half  hid  by  the  altar — "  if  you  will  do  me 
this  honor,  I  will  prove  to  you  that  I  am  here  to  serve 
you." 

"  That  is  impossible,"  answered  Nobili.  "  Nor  do  I 
oare.  I  leave  this  house  immediately." 

"  But  allow  me  to  observe,  Count  Nobili,"  and  Maestro 
Guglielmi  drew  himself  up  with  an  air  of  offended  dignity, 
"  you  are  bound  as  a  gentleman  to  retract  those  words,  or 
to  hear  my  explanation."  (Delay  at  any  price  was  Gugli 
elmi's  object.)  "  Surely,  Count  Nobili,  you  cannot  refuse 
me  this  satisfaction  ?  " 

Count  Nobili  hesitated.  What  could  this  strange  man 
have  to  say  to  him? 

Guglielmi  watched  him. 

"  You  will  spare  me  half  an  hour  ?  "  he  urged.  "  That 
will  suffice." 

Count  Nobili  looked  greatly  embarrassed. 


THE  HOUR  STRIKES.  365 

"  A  thousand  thanks  ! "  exclaimed  Guglielmi,  accepting 
his  silence  for  consent.  "  I  will  not  trespass  needlessly  on 
your  time.  Permit  me  to  find  some  one  to  conduct  you  to 
a  room." 

Guglielmi  looked  round — Angelo  came  forward. 

"  Conduct  Count  Nobili  to  the  room  prepared  for  him," 
said  the  lawyer.  "  There,  Count  Nobili,  I  will  attend  you 
in  a  few  minutes." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FOR  THE   HONOR   OF   A   NAME. 

V/HEN  the  marchesa  entered  the  sala  after  she  had  left 
the  chapel,  her  steps  were  slow  and  measured.  Count 
Nobili's  words  rang  in  her  ear:  "  I  will  not  live  with  her." 
She  could  not  put  these  words  from  her.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  the  marchesa  was  shaken  in  the  belief  of 
her  mission. 

If  Count  Nobili  refused  to  live  with  Enrica  as  his  wife, 
all  the  law  in  the  world  could  not  force  him.  If  no  heir 
was  born  to  the  Guinigi,  she  had  lived  in  vain. 

As  the  marchesa  stood  in  the  dull  light  of  the  misty 
afternoon,  leaning  against  the  solid  carved  table  on  which 
refreshments  were  spread,  the  old  palace  at  Lucca  rose  up 
before  her  dyed  with  the  ruddy  tints  of  summer  sunsets. 
She  trod  again  in  thought  those  mysterious  rooms,  shroud 
ed  in  perpetual  twih'ght.  She  gazed  upon  the  faces  of  the 
dead,  looking  down  upon  her  from  the  walls.  How  could 
she  answer  to  those  dead;  for  what  had  she  done?  That 
heroic  face  too  with  the  stern,  soft  eyes — how  could  she 
meet  it  ?  What  was  Count  Nobili  or  his  wealth  to  her 
without  an  heir?  By  threats  she  had  forced  Nobili  to 
make  Enrica  his  wife,  but  no  threats  could  compel  him  to 
complete  the  marriage. 

As  she  lingered  in  the  sala,  stunned  by  the  blow  that 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  A  NAME.  367 

had  fallen  upon  her,  the  marchesa  suddenly  recollected  the 
penciled  lines  which  Guglielmi  had  torn  from  his  tablet 
and  slipped  into  her  hand.  She  drew  the  paper  from  the 
folds  of  her  dress  and  read  these  words : 

"  We  are  beaten  if  Count  Nobili  leaves  the  house  to 
night.  Keep  him  at  all  hazards" 

A  sudden  revulsion  seized  her.  She  raised  her  head 
with  that  snake-like  action  natural  to  her.  The  blood 
rushed  to  her  face  and  neck.  Guglielmi  then  still  had 
hope? — All  was  not  lost.  In  an  instant  her  energy  re 
turned  to  her.  "What  could  she  do  to  keep  him  ?  Would 
Enrica — Enrica  was  still  within  the  chapel.  The  mar 
chesa  heard  the  murmur  of  voices  coming  through  the 
corridor.  No,  though  she  worshiped  him,  Enrica  would 
never  lend  herself  to  tempt  Nobili  with  the  bait  of  her 
beauty — no,  even  though  she  was  his  wife.  It  would  be 
useless  to  ask  her.  "  Keep  him — how  ? "  the  marchesa 
asked  herself  with  feverish  impatience.  Every  moment 
was  precious.  She  heard  footsteps.  They  must  be  leaving 
the  chapel.  Nobili,  perhaps,  was  going.  No.  The  door  to 
the  garden,  by  which  Nobili  had  entered  the  chapel,  was 
now  locked.  Adamo  had  given  her  the  key.  She  must 
therefore  see  them  when  they  passed  out  through  the  sala. 
At  this  moment  the  howling  of  the  dogs  was  audible. 
They  were  chained  up  in  the  cave  under  the  tower.  Poor 
beasts,  they  had  been  forgotten  in  the  hurry  of  the  day.  The 
d.ogs  were  hungry ;  were  yelping  for  their  food.  Through 
the  open  door  the  marchesa  saw  Adamo  pass — a  sudden 
thought  struck  her. 

"  Adamo  ! " 

"  Padrona."  And  Adamo's  bullet-head  and  broad  shoul 
ders  fill  up  the  doorway. 

"  mere  is  Count  Nobili  ?  " 


368  THE  ITALIANS. 

"  Along  with  the  lawyer  from  Lucca." 

"  He  is  safe,  then,  for  the  present,"  the  marchesa  told 
herself. 

Adamo  could  not  speak  for  staring  at  his  mistress  as  she 
stood  opposite  to  him  full  in  the  light.  He  had  never  seen 
such  a  look  upon  her  face  all  the  years  he  had  served  her. 

She  almost  smiled  at  him. 

"Adamo,"  the  marchesa  addresses  him  eagerly,  "  come 
here.  -How  many  years  have  you  lived  with  me  ?  " 

Adamo  grins  and  shows  two  rows  of  white  teeth. 

"  Thirty  years,  padrona — I  came  when  I  was  a  little 
lad." 

"  Have  I  treated  you  well,  Adamo  ?  " 

As  she  asks  this  question,  the  marchesa  moves  close  to 
him. 

"  Have  I  ever  complained,"  is  Adamo's  answer,  "  that 
the  marchesa  asks  me  ?  " 

"  You  saved  my  life,  Adamo,  not  long  ago,  from  the 
fire."  The  eager  look  is  growing  intenser.  "  I  have  never 
thanked  you.  Adamo — " 

"  Padrona  " — he  is  more  and  more  amazed  at  her — "  she 
must  be  going  to  die  !  Gesu  mio  !  I  wish  she  would  swear 
at  me,"  Adamo  thought.  "  Padrona,  don't  thank  me — 
Domine  Dio  did  it." 

"  Take  these  " — and  the  marchesa  puts  her  hand  into  her 
pocket  and  draws  out  some  notes — "  take  these,  these  are 
better  than  thanks." 

Adamo  drew  back  much  affronted.  "  Padrona,  I  don't 
want  money." 

"  Yes,  yes,  take  them — for  Pipa  and  the  boys  " — and 
she  thrusts  the  notes  into  his  big  red  hands. 

"  After  all,"  thought  Adamo  to  himself,  "  if  the  padrona 
is  going  to  die,  I  may  as  well  have  these  notes  as  another." 

"  I  would  save  your  life  any  day,  padrona,"  Adamo 
says  aloud.  "  It  is  a  pleasure." 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  A  NAME.  369 

"  Would  you  ?  "  the  marchesa  fell  into  a  muse. 

Again  the  dogs  howled.  Adarao  makes  a  motion  to  go 
to  them. 

"  Were  you  going  to  feed  the  dogs  when  I  called  to 
you  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  Padrona,  yes.     I  was  going  to  feed  them." 

"  Are  they  very  hungry  ?  " 

"  Very — poverini !  they  have  had  nothing  since  this 
morning.  Now  it  is  five  o'clock." 

"Don't  feed  them,  Adamo,  don't  feed  them."  The 
marchesa  is  strangely  excited.  She  holds  out  her  hand 
to  detain  him. 

Adamo  stares  at  her  in  mute  consternation.  "  The 
padrona  is  certainly  going  mad  before  she  dies,"  he  mut 
ters,  trying  to  get  away. 

"  Adamo,  come  here  !  "  He  approaches  her,  secretly 
making  horns  against  the  evil-eye  with  his  fingers.  "  You 
saved  my  life,  now  you  must  save  my  honor." 

The  words  came  hissing  into  his  ear.  Adamo  drew  back 
a  step  or  two.  "  Blessed  mother,  what  ails  her  ?  "  But 
he  held  his  tongue. 

The  marchesa  stands  before  him  drawn  up  to  her  full 
height,  every  nerve  and  muscle  strained  to  the  utmost. 

"  Adamo,  do  you  hear  ? — My  honor,  the  honor  of  my 
name.  Quick,  quick !  " 

She  lays  her  hand  on  his  rough  jacket  and  grasps  it. 

Adamo,  struck  with  superstitious  awe,  cannot  speak. 
He  nods. 

"  The  dogs  are  hungry,  you  say.  Let  them  loose  with 
out  feeding.  No  one  must  leave  the  house  to-night.  Do 
you  understand  ?  You  must  prevent  it.  Let  the  dogs 
loose." 

Again  Adamo  nods.  He  is  utterly  bewildered.  He 
will  obey  her,  of  course,  but  what  can  she  mean  ? 

"  Is  your  gun  loaded  ?  "  she  asks,  anxiously. 


370  THE  ITALIANS. 

"  Yes,  padrona." 

"  That  is  well."  A  vindictive  smile  lights  up  her  feat 
ures.  "  No  one  must  leave  the  house  to-night.  You  un 
derstand?  The  dogs  will  be  loose — the  guns  loaded. — 
Where  is  Pipa  ?  Say  nothing  to  Pipa.  Do  you  under 
stand  ?  Don't  tell  Pipa—" 

"Understand?  No,  diavalo!  I  don't  understand," 
bursts  out  Adamo.  "  If  you  want  any  one  shot,  tell  me 
who  it  is,  padrona,  and  I  will  do  it." 

"  That  would  be  murder,  Adamo."  The  marchesa  is 
standing  very  near  him.  Adamo  sees  the  savage  gleam 
that  comes  into  her  eyes.  "  If  any  one  leaves  the  house  to 
night  except  Fra  Pacifico,  stop  him,  Adamo,  stop  him. 
You,  or  the  dogs,  or  the  gun — no  matter.  Stop  him,  I  com 
mand  you.  I  have  my  reasons.  If  a  life  is  lost  I  cannot 
help  it — nor  can  you,  Adamo,  eh  ?  " 

She  smiles  grimly.  Adamo  smiles  too,  a  stolid  smile, 
and  nods.  He  is  greatly  relieved.  The  padrona  is  not  mad, 
nor  will  she  die. 

"  You  may  sleep  in  peace,  padrona."  With  the  utmost 
respect  Adamo  raises  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kisses  it. 
"  Next  time  ask  Adamo  to  do  something  more,  and  he  will 
do  it.  Trust  me,  no  one  shall  leave  the  house  to-night 
alive." 

The  marchesa  listens  to  Adamo  breathlessly.  "  Go — 
go,"  she  says ;  "  we  must  not  be  seen  together." 

"  The  signora  shall  be  obeyed,"  answers  Adamo.  He 
vanishes  behind  the  trees. 

"  Now  I  can  meet-Guglielmi ! "     The  marchesa  rapidly 
crosses  the  sala  to  the  door  of  her  own  room,  which  she_ 
leaves  ajar. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HUSBAND   VERSUS   WIFE. 

THE  room  to  which  Angelo  conducts  Count  Nobili  is 
on  the  ground-floor,  in  the  same  wing  as  the  chapel.  It 
is  reached  by  the  same  corridor,  which  traverses  all  that 
side  of  the  house.  Into  this  corridor  many  other  doors 
open.  Pipa  had  chosen  it  because  it  was  the  best  room  in 
the  house.  From  the  high  ceiling,  painted  in  gay  fres 
coes,  hangs  a  large  chandelier ;  the  bed  is  covered  with 
red  damask  curtains.  Such  furniture  as  was  available  had 
been  carried  thither  by  Pipa  and  Adamo.  One  large  win 
dow,  reaching  to  the  ground,  looks  westward  over  the  low 
wall. 

The  sun  is  setting.  The  mighty  range  of  mountains 
are  laced  with  gold ;  light,  fleecy  cloudlets  float  across  the 
sky.  Behind  rise  banks  of  deepest  saffron.  These  shift 
and  move  at  first  in  chaos  ;  then  they  take  the  form  as  of 
a  fiery  city.  There  are  domes  and  towers  and  pinnacles  as 
of  living  flame,  that  burn  and  glisten.  Another  moment, 
and  the  sun  has  sunk  to  rest.  The  phantom  city  fades ; 
the  ruddy  background  melts  into  the  gray  mountain-side. 
Dim  ghost-like  streaks  linger  about  the  double  summits  of 
La  Pagna.  They  vanish.  Nothing  then  remains  but 
masses  of  leaden  clouds  soon  to  darken  into  night. 

On  entering  the  room,  Count  Nobili  takes  a  long  breath,. 


372  THE    ITALIANS. 

gazes  for  a  moment  on  the  mountains  that  rise  before  him, 
then  turns  toward  the  door,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Gugli- 
elmi.  His  restless  eye,  his  shifting  color,  betray  his  agita 
tion.  The  ordeal  is  not  yet  over ;  he  must  hear  what  this 
man  has  to  say. 

Maestro  Guglielmi  enters  with  a  quick,  brisk  step  and 
easy,  confident  bearing  ;  indeed,  he  is  in  the  highest  spirits. 
He  had  trembled  lest  Nobili  should  have  insisted  upon 
leaving  Corellia  immediately  after  the  ceremony  when  it  was 
still  broad  daylight.  Several  unforeseen  circumstances  had 
prevented  this — Enrica's  fainting-fit;  the  discussion  that 
ensued  upon  it  between  Nobili  and  the  old  chamberlain — 
all  this  had  created  delay,  and  afforded  him  an  appropriate 
opportunity  of  requesting  a  private  interview.  Besides, 
the  cunning  lawyer  had  noted  that,  during  that  discussion 
in  the  chapel  with  Cavaliere  Trenta,  Nobili  had  evinced 
indications  of  other  passions  besides  anger — indications  of 
a  certain  tenderness  in  the  midst  of  his  vehement  sense  of 
the  wrong  done  him  by  the  marchesa.  But,  what  was  of 
far  more  consequence  to  Guglielmi  was,  that  all  this  had 
the  effect  of  stopping  Nobili's  immediate  departure.  That 
Guglielmi  had  prevailed  upon  Nobili  to  enter  the  room 
prepared  for  him — that  he  had  in  so  doing  domiciled  him 
self  voluntarily  under  the  same  roof  as  his  wife — was  an 
immense  point  gained. 

All  this  filled  Maestro  Guglielmi  with  the  prescience 
of  success.  With  Nobili  in  the  house,  what  might  not  the 
chapter  of  accidents  produce  ?  All  this  had  occurred,  too, 
without  taking  into  account  what  the  marchesa  herself 
might  have  planned,  when  she  had  read  the  note  of  instruc 
tions  he  had  written  upon  a  page  of  his  tablets.  Guglielmi 
thought  he  knew  his  friend  and  client  the  Marchesa  Gui- 
nigi  but  little,  if  her  fertile  brain  had  not  already  created 
some  complication  that  would  have  the  effect  of  preventing 
Count  Nobili's  departure  that  night.  The  instant — the 


HUSBAND  VERSUS  WIFE.  373 

immediate  instant — now  lay  with  himself.  He  was  about 
to  make  the  most  of  it. 

When  Guglielmi  entered  the  room,  Count  Nobili  re 
ceived  him  with  an  expression  of  undisguised  disgust. 
Summoned  by  Nobili  in  a  peremptory  tone  to  say  why  he 
had  brought  him  hither,  Guglielmi  broke  forth  with  ex 
traordinary  volubility.  He  had  used,  he  declared,  his  in 
fluence  with  the  marchesa  throughout  for  his  (Count  No- 
bili's)  advantage — solely  for  his  advantage.  One  word  from 
him,  and  the  Marchesa  Guinigi  would  have  availed  herself 
of  her  legal  claims  in  the  most  vindictive  manner — exposed 
family  secrets — made  the  whole  transaction  of  the  mar 
riage  public — and  so  revenged  herself  upon  him  that  Count 
Nobili  would  have  no  choice  but  to  leave  Lucca  and  Italy 
forever. 

"All  this  I  have  prevented,"  Guglielmi  insisted  em 
phatically.  "  How  could  I  serve  you  better  ? — Could  a 
brother  have  guarded  your  honor  more  jealously  ?  You 
will  come  to  see  and  acknowledge  the  obligation  in  time — 
yes,  Count  Nobili — in  time.  Time  brings  all  things  to 
light.  Time  will  exhibit  my  integrity,  my  disinterested 
devotion  to  your  interests  in  their  true  aspect.  All  little 
difficulties  settled  with  my  illustrious  client,  the  Marchesa 
Guinigi  (a  high-minded  and  most  courageous  lady  of  the 
heroic  type),  established  in  Lucca  in  the  full  enjoyment  of 
your  enormous  wealth — with  the  lovely  lady  I  have  just 
seen  by  your  side — the  enlightened  benefactor  of  the  city 
— the  patron  of  art — the  consoler  of  distress — a  leader  of 
the  young  generation  of  nobles — the  political  head  of  the 
new  Italian  party — bearing  the  grandest  name  (of  course 
you  will  adopt  that  of  Guinigi),  adorning  that  name  with 
the  example  of  noble  actions — a  splendid  career  opens  be 
fore  you.  Yes,  Count  Nobili — yes — a  career  worthy  of 
the  loftiest  ambition ! 

"  All  this  I  have  been  the  happy  means  of  procuring 


374  THE  ITALIANS. 

for  you.  Another  advocate  might  have  exasperated  the 
marchesa's  passions  for  his  own  purposes;  it  would  have 
been  most  easy.  But  I,"  continued  Guglielmi,  bringing 
his  flaming  eyes  to  bear  upon  Count  Nobili,  then  raising 
them  from  him  outward  toward  the  darkening  mountains 
as  though  he  would  call  on  the  great  Apennines  to  bear 
witness  to  his  truth — "  I  have  scorned  such  base  consider 
ations.  With  unexampled  magnanimity  I  have  brought 
about  this  marriage — all  this  I  have  done,  actuated  by  the 
purest,  the  most  single-hearted  motives.  In  return,  Count 
Nobili,  I  make  one  request — I  entreat  you  to  believe  that 
I  am  your  friend — " 

(Before  the  lawyer  had  concluded  his  peroration,  pro 
fessional  zeal  had  so  far  transported  him  that  he  had  con 
vinced  himself  all  he  said  was  true — was  he  not  indeed 
pleading  for  his  judgeship  ?) 

Guglielmi  extended  his  arms  as  if  about  to  embrace 
Count  Nobili ! 

All  this  time  Nobili  had  stood  as  far  removed  from  him 
as  possible.  Nobili  had  neither  moved  nor  raised  his  head 
once.  He  had  listened  to  Guglielmi,  as  the  rocks  listen  to 
the  splash  of  the  seething  waves  beating  against  their  side. 
As  the  lawyer  proceeded,  a  deep  flush  gradually  overspread 
his  face — when  he  saw  the  lawyer's  outstretched  arms,  he 
retreated  to  the  utmost  limits  of  the  room.  Guglielmi's 
arms  fell  to  his  side. 

"  Whatever  may  be  my  opinion  of  you,  Signore  Avvoca- 
to,"  spoke  the  count  *at  length,  contemplating  Guglielmi 
fixedly,  and  speaking  slowly,  as  if  exercising  a  strong  con 
trol  over  himself — "  whether  I  accept  your  friendship,  or 
whether  I  believe  anyone  word  you  say,  is  immaterial.  It 
cannot  affect  in  any  way  what  is  past.  The  declaration  I 
made  before  the  altar  is  the  declaration  to  which  I  adhere 
— I  am  not  bound  to  state  my  reasons.  To  me  they  are 
overwhelming.  I  must  therefore  decline  all  discussion  with 


•       HUSBAND  VERSUS  WIFE.  375 

you.  It  is  for  you  to  make  such  arrangements  with  your 
client  as  will  insure  me  a  separation.  That  done,  our  paths 
lie  far  apart." 

Who  would  have  recognized  the  gracious,  facile  Count 
Nobili  in  these  hard  words  ?  The  haughty  tone  in  which 
they  were  uttered  added  to  their  sting. 

We  are  at  best  the  creatures  of  circumstances — circum- 
staaces  had  entirely  altered  him.  At  that  moment,  Nobili 
was  at  war  with  all  the  world.  He  hated  himself — he 
hated  and  he  mistrusted  every  one.  Guglielmi  was  not  cer 
tainly  adapted  to  restore  faith  in  mankind. 

Legal  habits  had  taught  Maestro  Guglielmi  to  shape  his 
countenance  into  a  mask,  fashioned  to  whatever  expression 
he  might  desire  to  assume.  Never  had  the  trick  been  so 
difficult !  The  intense  rage  that  possessed  him  was  uncon 
trollable.  For  the  first  moment  he  stood  stolidly  mute. 
Then  he  struck  the  heel  of  his  boot  loudly  upon  the  stuc 
coed  floor — would  he  could  crush  Count  Nobili  thus ! — 
crush  him  and  trample  upon  him — Nobili — the  only  obsta 
cle  to  the  high  honors  awaiting  him !  The  next  instant 
Guglielmi  was  reproaching  himself  for  his  want  of  control 
— the  next  instant  he  was  conscious  how  needful  it  was  to 
dissemble.  Was  he  —  Guglielmi  —  who  had  flashed  his 
sword  in  a  thousand  battles,  to  be  worsted  by  a  stubborn 
boy  ?  Outwitted  by  a  capricious  lover  ?  Never ! 

"  Excuse  me,  Count  Nobili,"  he  said,  overmastering  him 
self  by  a  violent  effort — "  it  is  a  bitter  pang  to  me,  your 
devoted  friend,  to  be  asked  to  become  a  party  to  an  act 
fatal  to  your  prospects.  If  you  adhere  to  your  resolution, 
you  can  never  return  to  Lucca — never  inhabit  the  palace 
your  wealth  has  so  superbly  decorated.  Public  opinion 
would  not  permit  it.  You,  a  stranger  in  the  city,  are  held 
to  have  ill-used  and  abandoned  the  niece  of  the  Marchesa 
Guinigi."  Nobili  looked  up ;  he  was  about  to  reply.  "  Par 
don  me,  count,  I  neither  affirm  nor  deny  this  accusation," 


376  THE  ITALIANS. 

continued  Guglielmi,  observing  his  movement ;  "  I  am  giv 
ing  no  opinion  on  the  merits  of  the  case.  You  have  now 
espoused  the  lady.  If  for  a  second  time  you  abandon  her, 
you  will  incur  the  increased  indignation  of  the  public. 
Reconsider,  I  implore  you,  this  last  resolve." 

The  lawyer's  metallic  voice  grew  positively  pathetic. 

"  I  will  not  reconsider  it ! "  cried  Count  Nobili,  indig 
nantly.  "I  deny  your  right  to  advise  me.  You  have 
brought  me  into  this  room  for  no  purpose  that  I  can  com 
prehend.  What  have  I  in  common  with  the  advocate  of 
my  enemy  ?  I  desire  to  leave  Corellia.  You  are  detaining 
me.  Here  is  the  deed  of  separation  " — Nobili  drew  from 
his  breast-pocket  the  parchment  he  had  perused  so  atten 
tively  in  the  chapel — "  it  only  needs  the  lady's  signature. 
Mine  is  already  affixed.  Let  me  tell  you,  and  through 
you  the  Marchesa  Guinigi,  without  that  deed — and  my  own 
free  will,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "neither  you  nor  she 
would  have  forced  me  here  to  this  marriage ;  I  came  because 
I  considered  some  reparation  was  due  to  a  young  lady  whose 
name  has  been  cruelly  outraged.  Else  I  would  have  died 
first!  If  the  lady  I  have  made  my  wife  desires  to  make 
any  amends  to  me  for  the  insults  that  have  been  heaped 
upon  me  through  her,  let  her  set  me  free  from  an  odious 
thralldrom.  I  will  not  so  much  as  look  upon  one  who  has 
permitted  herself  to  be  made  the  tool  of  others  to  deceive 
me.  She  has  been  treacherous  to  me  in  business — she  has 
been  treacherous  to  me  in  love — no,  I  will  never  look  upon 
her  again !  Live  with  her  ? — by  God !  never ! " 

The  pent-up  wrath  within  him,  the  maddening  sense  of 
wrong,  blaze  out.  Count  Nobili  is  now  striding  up  and 
down  the  room  insensible  to  any  thing  for  the  moment  but 
the  consciousness  of  his  own  outraged  feelings. 

As  Count  Nobili  waxed  furious,  Maestro  Guglielmi  grew 
calm.  His  busy  brain  was  concocting  all  sorts  of  expedients. 
He  leaned  his  chin  upon  his  hands.  His  false  smile  gave 


HUSBAND  VERSUS  WIFE.  377 

place  to  a  sardonic  grin,  as  he  watched  Nobili — marked  his 
well-set,  muscular  figure,  his  easy  movements,  the  graceful 
curve  of  his  head  and  neck,  his  delicate,  regular  features, 
his  sunny  complexion.  But  Nobili' s  face  without  a  smile 
was  shorn  of  its  chief  charm :  that  smile,  so  bright  in  itself, 
brought  brightness  to  others. 

"  A  fine,  generous  fellow,  a  proper  husband  for  any  lady 
in  Italy,  whoever  she  may  be,"  was  Guglielmi's  reflection, 
as  he  watched  him.  "  The  young  countess  has  taste.  He 
is  not  such  a  fool  either,  but  desperately  provoking — like 
all  boys  with  large  fortunes,  desperately  provoking — and 
dogged  as  a  mule.  But  for  all  that  he  is  a  fine,  generous- 
hearted  fellow.  I  like  him — I  like  him  for  refusing  to  be 
forced  against  his  will.  I  would  not  live  with  an  angel  on 
such  terms."  At  this  point  Guglielmi's  eyes  exhibited  a 
succession  of  fireworks ;  his  long  teeth  gleamed,  and  he 
smiled  a  stealthy  smile.  "But  he  must  be  tamed,  this 
youth — he  must  be  tamed.  Let  me  see,  I  must  take  him 
on  another  tack  —  on  the  flank  this  time,  and  hit  him 
hard ! " 

Nobili  has  now  ceased  striding  up  and  down  the  room. 
He  stands  facing  the  window.  His  ear  has  caught  the 
barking  of  several  dogs.  A  minute  after,  one  rushes  past  the 
window — raised  only  by  a  few  stone  steps  from  the  ground — 
a  formidable  beast  with  long  white  hair,  tail  on  end,  ears 
erect,  open-mouthed,  fiery-eyed — this  is  Argo — Argo  let 
loose,  famished — maddened  by  Adamo's  devices — Argo 
rushing  at  full  speed  and  tearing  up  a  shower  of  gravel 
with  his  huge  paws.  Barking  horribly,  he  disappears  into 
the  shrubs.  Argo's  bark  is  taken  up  by  the  other  dogs 
from  all  round  the  house  in  various  keys.  Juno  the  lurcher 
gives  a  short  low  yelp  ;  the  rat-terrier  Tuzzi,  a  shrill,  grat 
ing  whine  like  a  rusty  saw ;  the  bull-terrier,  a  deep  growl. 
In  the  solemn  silence  of  the  untrodden  Apennines  that  rise 
around,  the  loud  voices  of  the  dogs  echo  from  cliff  to  cliff, 


378  THE   ITALIANS. 

boom  down  into  the  abyss,  and  rattle  there  like  thunder. 
The  night-birds  catch  up  the  sound  and  screech ;  the  fright 
ened  bats  circle  round  wildly. 

At  this  moment  heavy  footsteps  creak  upon  the  gravel 
under  the  shadow  of  the  wall.  A  low  whistle  passes 
through  the  air,  and  the  dogs  disappear. 

"  A  savage  pack,  like  their  mistress,"  was  Count  Nobili's 
thought  as  his  eyes  tried  to  pierce  into  the  growing  dark 
ness. 

Night  is  coming  on.  Heavy  vapors  creep  up  from  the 
earth  and  obscure  the  air.  Darker  and  denser  clouds  cover 
the  heavens.  Black  shadows  gather .  within  the  room. 
The  bed  looms  out  from  the  lighter  walls  like  a  funeral 
catafalque. 

A  few  pale  gleams  of  light  still  linger  on  the  horizon. 
These  fall  upon  Nobili's  figure  as  he  stands  framed  in  the 
window.  As  the  waning  light  strikes  upon  his  eyes,  a  pre 
sentiment  of  danger  comes  over  him.  These  dogs,  these 
footsteps — what  do  they  mean  ? 

Again  a  wild  desire  seizes  him  to  be  riding  full  speed 
on  the  mountain-road  to  Lucca,  to  feel  the  fresh  night  air 
upon  his  heated  brow ;  the  elastic  spring  of  his  good  horse 
under  him,  each  stride  bearing  him  farther  from  his  ene 
mies.  He  is  about  to  leap  out  and  fly,  when  the  warning 
hand  of  the  lawyer  is  laid  upon  his  arm.  Nobili  shakes 
him  off,  but  Guglielmi  permits  himself  no  indication  of 
offense.  Dejection  and  grief  are  depicted  on  his  counte 
nance.  He  shakes  his  head  despondingly ;  his  manner  is 
dangerously  fawning.  He,  too,  has  heard  the  dogs,  the 
footsteps,  and  the  whistle.  He  has  drawn  his  own  conclu 
sions. 

"  I  perceive,  Count  Nobili,"  he  says,  "  you  are  impa 
tient." 

This  was  in  response  to  a  muttered  curse  from  Nobili. 

"  Let  me  go  !     A  thousand  devils  !     Let  me  go  !  "  cried 


HUSBAND    VERSUS  WIFE.  379 

the  count,  putting  the  lawyer  back.  "Impatient!  lam 
maddened ! " 

"  But  not  before  we  have  settled  the  matter  in  question. 
That  is  impossible  1  Hear  me,  then,  Count  Nobili.  With 
the  deepest  sorrow  I  accept  the  separation  you  demand  on 
the  part  of  the  marchesa ;  you  give  me  no  choice.  I  vent 
ure  no  further  remark,"  continues  Guglielmi  meekly,  drill 
ing  his  eyes  to  a  subdued  expression. 

(His  eyes  are  a  continual  curse  to  him ;  sometimes  they 
will  tell  the  truth.) 

"  But  there  is  one  point,  my  dear  count,  upon  which 
we  must  understand  each  other." 

In  order  to  detain  Nobili,  Guglielmi  is  about  to  commit 
himself  to  a  deliberate  lie.  Lying  is  not  his  practice  ;  not 
on  principle,  for  he  has  none.  Expediency  is  his  -faith, 
pliancy  his  creed ;  lying  is  inartistic,  also  dangerous.  A 
lie  may  grow  into  a  spectre,  and  haunt  you  to  your  grave, 
perhaps  beyond  it. 

Guglielmi  felt  he  must  do  something  decisive,  or  that 
exalted  personage  who  desired  to  avoid  all  scandal  not 
connected  with  himself  would  be  irretrievably  offended, 
and  he,  Guglielmi,  would  never  sit  on  the  judicial  bench. 
Yet,  unscrupulous  as  he  was,  the  trickster  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  what  that  lie  might  cost  him. 

It  is  my  duty  to  inform  you,  Count  Nobili  " — Guglielmi 
is  speaking  with  pompous  earnestness — he  anxiously  notes 
the  effect  his  words  produce  upon  Count  Nobili — "  that,  un 
less  you  remain  under  the  same  roof  with  your  wife  to 
night,  the  marriage  will  not  be  completed ;  therefore  no 
separation  between  you  will  be  legal." 

Nobili  turned  pale.  He  struck  his  fist  violently  on  the 
table. 

"  What !  a  new  difficulty  ?  When  will  this  torture 
end?" 

"  It  will  end  to-morrow  morning,  Count  Nobili.     To- 


380  THE   ITALIANS. 

morrow  morning  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  waiting  upon 
you,  in  company  with  the  Mayor  of  Corellia,  for  the  civil 
marriage.  Every  requisition  of  the  law  will  then  have  been 
complied  with." 

Maestro  Guglielmi  bows  and  moves  toward  the  door. 
If  by  this  means  the  civil  marriage  can  be  brought  about, 
Guglielmi  will  have  clinched  a  doubtful  act  into  a  legal 
certainty. 

"  A  moment,  Signore  Avvocato  " — and  Nobili  is  follow 
ing  Guglielmi  to  the  door,  consternation  and  amazement 
depicted  upon  his  countenance.  "Is  this  indeed  so?" 

Nobili's  manner  indicates  suspicion. 

"  Absolutely  so,"  answers  the  mendacious  one.  "  To 
morrow  morning,  after  the  civil  marriage,  we  shall  be  in 
readiness  to  sign  the  deed  of  separation.  Allow  me  in  the 
mean  time  to  peruse  it." 

He  holds  out  his  hand.  If  all  fails,  he  determines  to 
destroy  that  deed,  and  protest  that  he  has  lost  it. 

"  Dio  Santo ! "  ejaculates  Nobili,  giving  the  deed  to 
him — "  twenty-four  hours  at  Corellia  ! " 

"  Not  twenty-four,"  suggests  Guglielmi,  blandly,  put 
ting  the  deed  into  his  pocket  and  taking  out  his  watch  with 
extraordinary  rapidity,  then  replacing  it  as  rapidly ;  "  it  is 
now  seven  o'clock.  At  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  the 
deed  of  separation  shall  be  signed,  and  you,  Count  Nobili, 
will  be  free." 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   LAWYER   BAFFLED. 

AT  that  moment  Fra  Pacifico's  tall  figure  barred  the 
doorway.  He  seemed  to  have  risen  suddenly  out  of  the 
darkness.  Nobili  started  back  and  changed  color.  Of  all 
living  men,  he  most  dreaded  the  priest  at  that  particular 
moment.  The  priest  was  now  before  him,  stern,  grave, 
authoritative ;  searching  him  with  those  earnest  eyes — the 
priest — a  living  protest  against  all  he  had  done,  against 
all  he  was  about  to  do  ! 

The  agile  lawyer  darted  forward.  He  was  about  to 
speak.  Fra  Pacifico  waved  him  into  silence. 

"  Maestro  Guglielmi,"  he  said,  with  that  sonorous  voice 
which  lent  importance  to  his  slightest  utterances,  "  I  am 
glad  to  find  you  here.  You  represent  the  marchesa. — My 
son,"  he  continued,  addressing  Count  Nobili  (as  he  did  so, 
his  face  darkened  into  a  look  of  mingled  pain  and  displeas 
ure),  "  I  come  from  your  wife." 

At  that  word  Fra  Pacifico  paused.  Count  Nobili  red 
dened.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the  floor ;  he  dared  not  meet 
the  reproving  glance  he  felt  was  upon  him. 

"  My  son,  I  come  from  your  wife,"  repeated  Fra  Pa 
cifico. 

There  was  a  dead  silence. 

"  You  saw  your  wife  borne  from  the  altar  fainting.  She 
was  mercifully  spared,  therefore,  hearing  from  your  own 


382  THE   ITALIANS. 

lips  that  you  repudiated  her.  She  has  since  been  informed 
by  Cavaliere  Trenta  that  you  did  so.  I  am  here  as  her 
messenger.  Your  wife  accepts  the  separation  you  desire." 

As  each  sentence  fell  from  the  priest's  lips  his  counte 
nance  grew  sterner. 

"  Accepts  the  separation  !  Gives  me  up !  "  exclaimed 
Nobili,  quite  taken  aback.  "  So  much  the  better.  We  are 
both  of  the  same  mind." 

But,  spite  his  words,  there  were  irritation  and  surprise 
in  Nobili's  manner.  That  Enrica  herself  should  have  con 
sented  to  part  from  him  was  altogether  an  astonishment ! 

"  If  Countess  Nobili  accepts  the  separation  " — and  he 
turned  sharply  upon  Guglielmi — "  nothing  need  detain 
you  here,  Signore  Avvocato.  You  hear  what  Fra  Pacifico 
savs.  You  have  only,  therefore,  to  inform  the  Marchesa 
Guinigi.  Probably  her  niece  has  already  done  so.  We 
know  that  they  act  in  concert."  Count  Nobili  laughed 
bitterly. 

"  The  marchesa  is  not  even  aware  that  I  am  here,"  in 
terposed  Fra  Pacifico.  "  Enrica  is  now  married — she  acts 
for  herself.  Her  first  act,  Count  Nobili,  is  one  of  obedience 
— she  sacrifices  herself  to  you." 

Again  the  priest's  deep-set  eyes  turned  reprovingly  upon 
Count  Nobili.  Dare  the  headstrong  boy  affect  to  misunder 
stand  that  he  had  driven  Enrica  to  renounce  him  ?  Gu 
glielmi  remained  standing  near  the  door — self-possessed, 
indeed,  as  usual,  but  utterly  crestfallen.  His  very  soul 
sank  within  him  as  he  listened  to  Fra  Pacifico.  Every 
thing  was  going  wrong,  the  judgeship  in  imminent  peril, 
and  this  devil  of  a  priest,  who  ought  to  know  better,  doing 
every  thing  to  divide  them  ! 

"Signore  Guglielmi,"  said  Nobili,  with  a  significant 
glance  at  the  open  door,  "  allow  me  to  repeat — we  need 
not  detain  you.  We  shall  now  act  for  ourselves.  Without 
reference  to  the  difficulties  you  have  raised — " 


THE  LAWYER  BAFFLED.  383 

"  The  difficulties  I  have  raised  have  been  for  your  own 
good,  Count  Nobili,"  was  Guglielmi's  indignant  reply. 
"  Had  I  been  supported  by  " — and  he  glanced  at  Fra  Pa 
cifico — "  by  those  whose  duty  teaches  them  obedience  to 
the  ordinances  of  the  Church,  you  would  have  saved  your 
self  and  others  the  spectacle  of  a  matrimonial  scandal  that 
will  degrade  you  before  the  eyes  of  all  Italy." 

Count  Nobili  was  rushing  forward,  with  some  undefined 
purpose  of  chastising  Guglielmi,  when  Fra  Pacifico  inter 
posed.  A  quiet  smile  parted  his  well-formed  mouth ;  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  eyed  the  enraged  lawyer. 

"  Allow  me  to  judge  of  my  duty  as  a  priest.  Look  to 
your  own  as  a  lawyer,  or  it  may  be  the  worse  for  you. 
What  says  the  motto  ? — '  Those  who  seek  gold  may  find 
sand.'  " 

Guglielmi,  greatly  alarmed  at  what  Fra  Pacifico  might 
reveal  of  their  previous  conversation,  waited  to  hear  no 
more ;  he  hastily  disappeared.  Fra  Pacifico  watched  the 
manner  of  his  exit  with  silence,  the  quiet  smile  of  conscious 
power  still  on  his  lips.  When  he  turned  and  addressed 
Count  Nobili,  the  smile  had  died  out. 

Before  Fra  Pacifico  can  speak,  the  whole  pack  of 
dogs,  attracted  by  the  loud  voices,  gather  round  the  steps 
before  the  open  window.  They  are  barking  furiously.  The 
smooth-skinned,  treacherous  bull-dog  is  silent,  but  he  stands 
foremost.  True  to  his  breed,  the  bull-dog  is  silent.  He 
creeps  in  noiselessly — his  teeth  gleam  within  an  inch  of 
Nobili.  Fra  Pacifico  spies  him.  With  a  furious  kick  he 
flings  him  out  far  over  the  heads  of  the  others.  The  bull 
dog's  howl  of  anguish  rouses  the  rest  to  frenzy.  A  mo 
ment  more,  and  Fra  Pacifico  and  Count  Nobili  would  have 
been  attacked  within  the  very  room,  but  again  footsteps 
are  heard  passing  in  the  shadow.  A  shot  is  fired  close  at 
hand.  The  dogs  rush  off,  the  bull-dog  whining  and  limp 
ing  in  the  rear. 


384  THE  ITALIANS. 

Count  Nobili  and  Fra  Pacifico  exchange  glances.  There 
is  a  knock  at  the  door.  Pipa  enters  carrying  a  lighted 
lamp  which  she  places  on  the  table.  Pipa  does  not  even 
salute  Fra  Pacifico,  but  fixes  her  eyes,  swollen  with  crying, 
upon  Count  Nobili. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asks  the  priest. 

"  Riverenza,  I  do  not  know.  Adamo  and  Angelo  are 
out  watching." 

"  But,  Pipa,  it  is  very  strange.  A  shot  was  fired.  The 
dogs,  too,  are  wilder  than  ever." 

"  Riverenza,  I  know  nothing.  Perhaps  there  are  some 
deserters  about.  We  are  used  to  the  dogs.  I  never  hear 
them.  I  am  come  from  the  signorina." 

At  that  name  Count  Nobili  looks  up  and  meets  Pipa's 
gaze.  If  Pipa  could  have  stabbed  him  then  and  there  with 
the  silver  dagger  in  her  black  hair  she  would  have  done  it, 
and  counted  it  a  righteous  act.  But  she  must  deliver  her 
message. 

"  Signore  Conte  " — Pipa  flings  her  words  at  Nobili  as 
if  each  word  were  a  stone,  with  which  she  would  have  hit 
him — "Signore  Conte,  the  marchesa  has  sent  me.  The 
marchesa  bids  me  salute  you.  She  desired  me  to  bring  in 
this  light.  I  was  to  say  supper  is  served  in  the  great  sala. 
She  eats  in  her  own  room  with  the  cavaliere,  and  hopes 
you  will  excuse  her." 

Before  the  count  could  answer,  Pipa  was  gone. 

"  My  son,"  said  Fra  Pacifico,  standing  beside  him  in 
the  dimly-lighted  room,  "  you  have  now  had  time  to  reflect. 
Do  you  accept  the  separation  offered  to  you  by  your  wife  ?" 

"  I  do,  my  father." 

"  Then  she  will  enter  a  convent."  Nobili  sighed  heav 
ily.  "  You  have  broken  her  heart." 

There  was  a  depth  of  unexpressed  reproach  in  the 
priest's  look.  Tears  gathered  in  his  eyes,  his  deep  voice 
shook. 


THE   LAWYER   BAFFLED.  385 

"  But  why  if  she  ever  loved  me  " — whispered  Nobili  in 
to  Fra  Pacifico's  ear  as  though  he  shrank  from  letting  the 
very  walls  hear  what  he  was  about  to  say — 

"  If  she  loved  you ! "  burst  out  Fra  Pacifico  with  rising 
passion — "  if  she  loved  you !  You  have  my  word  that  she 
loved  you — nay,  God  help  her,  that  she  loves  you  still !  " 

Fra  Pacifico  drew  back  from  Nobili  as  he  said  this. 
Again  Nobili  approached  him,  speaking  into  his  ear. 

"  Why,  then,  if  she  loved  me,  could  she  join  with  the 
marchesa  against  me?  Was  I  not  induced  by  my  love  for 
her  to  pay  her  aunt's  debts  ?  Answer  me  that,  my  father. 
Why  did  she  insist  upon  this  ill-omened  marriage  ? — a  pro 
ceeding  as  indelicate  as  it  is — " 

"  Silence !  "  thundered  Fra  Pacifico — "  silence,  I  com 
mand  you !  What  you  say  of  that  pure  and  lovely  girl 
whose  soul  is  as  crystal  before  me,  is  absolute  sacrilege. 
I  will  not  listen  to  it !  " 

Fra  Pacifico's  eyes  flashed  fire.  He  looked  as  if  he 
would  strike  Count  Nobili  where  he  stood.  He  checked 
himself,  however ;  then  he  continued  with  more  calmness : 
"  To  become  your  wife  was  needful  for  the  honor  of  Enrica's 
name,  which  you  had  slandered.  The  child  put  herself  in 
my  hands.  I  am  responsible  for  this  marriage — I  only. 
As  to  the  marchesa,  do  you  think  she  consults  Enrica? 
The  hawk  and  the  dove  share  not  the  same  nest !  No,  no. 
Did  the  marchesa  so  much  as  tell  Enrica,  when  she  offered 
her  as  wife  to  Count  Marescotti  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  Marescotti's  name  Nobili's  assumed 
composure  utterly  gave  way.  His  whole  frame  stiffened 
with  rage. 

"  Yes — Marescotti — curse  him  !  And  I  am  the  husband 
of  the  woman  he  refused  1 " 

"  For  shame,  Count  Nobili ! — you  have  yourself  ex 
onerated  her." 

"  Enrica  must  have  been  an  accomplice  ! "  cried  Nobili, 
17 


386  THE   ITALIANS. 

transported  out  of  himself.  Count  Marescotti's  name  had 
exasperated  him  beyond  control. 

"  Fool ! "  exclaimed  Fra  Pacifico.  "  Will  you  not  listen 
to  reason  ?  Has  not  Enrica  by  her  own  act  renounced  all 
claim  to  you  as  a  wife  ?  Is  not  that  enough  ?  " 

Nobili  was  silent.  Hitherto  he  had  been  driven  on, 
goaded  by  the  promptings  of  passion,  and  the  firm  belief 
that  Enrica  was  the  mere  tool  of  her  aunt.  Now  the  same 
facts  detailed  by  the  priest  placed  themselves  in  a  new 
light.  For  the  first  time  Nobili  doubted  whether  he  was 
entirely  justified  in  all  that  he  had  done — in  all  that  he  was 
about  to  do. 

Meanwhile  Fra  Pacifico  was  losing  all  patience.  His 
manly  nature  rose  within  him  at  what  he  considered  No- 
bili's  deliberate  cruelty.  Inflexible  in  right,  Fra  Pacifico 
was  violent  in  face  of  wrong. 

"  Why  did  you  not  let  her  die  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  bitterly. 
"  It  would  have  saved  her  a  world  of  suffering.  I  thought 
I  knew  you,  Mario  Nobili — knew  you  from  a  boy,"  he  add 
ed,  contemplating  him  with  a  dark  scowl.  "You  have  de 
ceived  nae.  Every  word  you  utter  only  sinks  you  lower  in 
my  esteem." 

"  It  would  indeed  have  been  better  had  we  both  per 
ished  in  the  flames  ! "  cried  Nobili  in  a  voice  full  of  anguish 
— "  perished — locked  in  each  other's  arms  !  Poor  Enrica ! " 
He  turned  away,  and  a  low  sob  burst  from  his  heart  of 
hearts.  "  The  marchesa  has  destroyed  my  love  ! — She  has 
blighted  my  life  ! "  Nobili's  voice  sounded  hollow  in  the 
dimly-lighted  room.  At  last  Nobili  was  speaking  out — 
speaking,  as  it  were,  from  the  grave  of  his  love  !  "  Yes,  I 
loved  her,"  he  continued  dreamily — "  I  loved  her  !  How 
much  I  did  not  know  !  " 

He  had  forgotten  he  was  not  alone.  The  priest  was  but 
dimly  visible.  He  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  his  mas 
sive  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  listening  to  Nobili.  Now, 


THE   LAWYER  BAFFLED.  387 

hearing  what  he  said,  Fra  Pacifico's  anger  had  vanished. 
After  all,  he  had  not  been  mistaken  in  his  old  pupil !  No- 
bili  was  neither  cruel  nor  heartless ;  but  he  had  been  driven 
to  bay !  Now  he  pitied  him,  profoundly.  What  could  he 
say  to  him  ?  He  could  urge  Nobili  no  more.  He  must 
work  out  his  own  fate ! 

Again  Nobili  spoke. 

"  When  I  saw  her  sweet  face  turned  toward  me  as  she 
entered  the  chapel,  I  dared  not  look  again  !  It  was  too 
late.  My  pride  as  a  man,  all  that  is  sacred  to  me  as  a  gen 
tleman,  has  been  too  deeply  wounded.  The  marchesa  has 
done  it.  She  alone  is  responsible.  She  has  left  me  no  al 
ternative.  I  will  never  accept  a  wife  forced  upon  me  by 
her — never,  by  Heaven!  My  father,  these  are  my  last 
words.  Carry  them  to  Enrica." 

Count  Nobili's  head  dropped  upon  his  breast.  He  cov 
ered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  My  son,  I  leave  you  in  the  hands  of  God.  May  He 
lead  you  and  comfort  you !  But  remember,  the  life  of  your 
wife  is  bound  up  in  your  life.  Hitherto  Enrica  has  lived 
upon  hope.  Deprived  of  hope,  she  will  die." 

When  Nobili  looked  up,  Fra  Pacifico  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XL 

FACE     TO     FACE. 

THE  time  had  now  come  when  Count  Nobili  must  finally 
make  up  his  mind.  He  had  told  Fra  Pacifico  that  his  de 
termination  was  unaltered.  He  had  told  him  that  his  dig 
nity  as  a  man,  his  honor  as  a  gentleman,  demanded  that  he 
should  free  himself  from  the  net-work  of  intrigues  in  which 
the  marchesa  had  entangled  him.  Of  all  earthly  things, 
compliancy  with  her  desires  most  revolted  him.  Rather 
than  live  any  longer  the  victim  either  of  her  malice  or  her 
ambition,  he  had  brought  himself  to  believe  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  renounce  Enrica.  Until  Fra  Pacifico  had  entered 
that  room  within  which  he  was  again  pacing  up  and  down 
with  hasty  strides,  no  doubt  whatever  had  arisen  in  his 
mind  as  to  what  it  was  incumbent  upon  him  to  do :  to  give 
Enrica  the  protection  of  his  name  by  marriage,  then  to 
separate.  Whether  to  separate  in  the  manner  pointed  out 
by  Guglielmi  he  had  not  decided.  An  innate  repulsion, 
now  increased  by  suspicion,  made  him  distrust  any  act 
pressed  upon  him  by  that  man,  especially  when  urged  in 
concert  with  the  marchesa. 

Every  hour  passed  at  Corellia  was  torture  to  him. 
Should  he  go  at  once,  or  should  he  remain  until  the  morn 
ing-? — sign  the  deed? — complete  the  sacrifice?  Already 
what  he  had  so  loudly  insisted  on  presented  itself  now  to 


FACE  TO  FACE.  389 

him  in  the  light  of  a  sacrifice.  Enrica  loved  him  still — he 
believed  Fra  Pacifico.  The  throbbing  of  his  heart  as  he 
thought  of  her  told  him  that  he  returned  that  love.  She 
was  there  near  him  under  the  same  roof.  Could  he  leave 
her  ?  Yes,  he  must  leave  her !  He  would  trust  himself 
no  longer  in  the  hands  of  the  marchesa  or  of  her  agent. 
Instinct  told  him  some  subtle  scheme  lay  under  the  urgings 
of  Guglielmi — the  dangerous  civilities  of  the  marchesa. 
He  would  go.  The  legal  separation  might  be  completed 
elsewhere.  Why  only  at  Corellia  ?  Why  must  those  for 
malities  insisted  on  by  Guglielmi  be  respected?  What 
did  they  mean  ?  Of  the  real  drift  of  the  delay  Nobili  was 
utterly  ignorant.  Had  he  asked  Fra  Pacifico,  he  would 
have  told  him  the  truth,  but  he  had  not  done  so. 

To  meet  Enrica  in  the  morning ;  to  meet  her  again  in 
the  presence  of  her  detested  aunt ;  to  meet  her  only  to  sign 
a  deed  separating  them  forever  under  the  mockery  of 
mutual  consent,  was  agony.  Why  should  he  endure  it  ? 

Nobili,  wrought  up  to  a  pitch  of  excitement  that  al 
most  robbed  him  of  reason,  dares  not  trust  himself  to  think. 
He  seizes  his  hat,  which  lay  upon  the  table,  and  rushes  out 
into  the  night.  The  murmur  of  voices  comes  dimly  to 
him  in  the  freshness  of  the  air  out  of  a  window  next  his 
own.  A  circle  of  light  shines  on  the  glistening  gravel  be 
fore  him.  There  must  be  people  within — people  watching 
him,  doubtless.  As  the  thought  crosses  his  mind  he  is 
suddenly  pinned  to  the  earth.  Argo  is  watching  for  him — 
stealthy  Argo — Argo  springs  upon  him  silently  from  be 
hind  ;  he  holds  him  tightly  in  his  grip.  The  dog  made  no 
sound,  nor  does  he  now,  but  he  has  laid  Nobili  flat  on  the 
ground.  He  stands  over  him,  his  heavy  paws  planted  upon 
his  chest,  his  open  jaws  and  dripping  tongue  close  upon  his 
face,  so  close,  that  Nobili  feels  the  dog's  hot  breath  upon 
his  skin.  Nobili  cannot  move ;  he  looks  up  fixedly  into 
Argo's  glaring,  bloodshot  eyes.  His  steady  gaze  daunts  the 


390  THE  ITALIANS. 

dog.  In  the  very  act  of  digging  his  big  fangs  into  Nobili's 
throat  Argo  pauses ;  he  shrinks  before  those  human  eyes  be 
fore  which  the  brutish  nature  quails.  In  an  instant  Nobili's 
strong  hands  close  round  his  throat ;  he  presses  it  until  the 
powerful  paws  slacken  in  their  grip — until  the  fiery  eyes 
are  starting  from  their  sockets. 

Silent  as  is  the  struggle  the  other  dogs  are  alarmed — 
they  give  tongue  from  different  sides.  Footsteps  are  rap- 
id\y  approaching — the  barrel  of  a  gun  gleams  out  of  the 
darkness — a  shot  is  fired — the  report  wanders  off  in  end 
less  reverberation  among  the  rocks — another  shot,  and  an 
other,  in  instant  succession,  answer  each  other  from  be 
hind  the  villa. 

With  a  grasp  of  iron  Nobili  holds  back  gallant  Argo — 
Argo  foaming  at  the  mouth ;  his  white-coated  chest  heav 
ing,  as  if  in  his  last  agony  !  Yet  Argo  is  still  immovable 
— his  heavy  paws  upon  Nobili's  chest  pressing  with  all  his 
weight  upon  him  ! 

Now  the  footsteps  have  turned  the  corner !  Dim  forms 
already  shape  themselves  in  the  night  mist.  The  other 
dogs,  barking  savagely,  are  behind — they  are  coming — 
they  are  at  hand  !  Ah  !  Nobili,  what  can  you  do  now  ? — 
Nobili  understands  his  danger.  Quick  as  thought  Nobili 
has  dealt  Argo  a  tremendous  blow  under  the  left  ear.  He 
seizes  him  by  his  milk-white  hair  so  long  and  beautiful,  he 
flings  him  against  the  low  wall  almost  insensible.  Argo  falls 
a  shapeless  mass.  He  is -stunned  and  motionless.  Before 
the  shadow  of  Adamo  is  upon  him — before  the  dogs'  noses 
touch  him — Nobili  is  on  his  feet.  With  one  bound  he  has 
leaped  through  the  window — the  same  from  which  the 
voices  had  come  (it  has  been  opened  in  the  scuffle) — in  an 
instant  he  closes  the  sash  !  He  is  safe ! 

Coming  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness,  after  the  great 
force  he  had  put  forth,  Nobili  feels  giddy  and  bewildered. 
At  first  he  sees  nothing  but  that  there  is  a  light  in  the  centre 


FACE   TO  FACE.  391 

of  the  room.  As  his  eyes  fix  themselves  upon  it  the  light 
almost  blinds  him.  He  puts  his  hand  to  his  forehead, 
where  the  veins  had  swollen  out  like  cords  upon  his  fair 
skin.  He  puts  up  his  hands  to  shade  his  dazzled  eyes  before 
which  clouds  of  stars  dance  desperately.  He  steadies  him 
self  and  looks  round. 

Before  him  stands  Enrica  ! 

By  Pipa's  care  the  bridegroom's  chamber  had  been 
chosen  next  the  bride's  when  she  prepared  Count  Nobili's 
room.  Pipa  was  straightforward  and  simple  in  her  notions 
of  matrimony,  but,  like  a  wise  woman,  she  had  held  her 
tongue. 

Nobili  and  Enrica  are  alone.  A  furtive  glance  passes 
between  them.  Neither  of  them  moves.  Neither  of  them 
speaks.  The  first  movement  conies  from  Enrica.  She 
sinks  backward  upon  a  chair.  The  tangle  of  her  yellow 
hair  closes  round  her  face  upon  which  a  deep  blush  had 
risen  at  sight  of  Nobili.  When  that  blush  had  died  out  she 
looked  resigned,  almost  passionless.  She  knew  that  the 
moment  had  come  which  must  decide  her  fate.  Before  the}7 
two  parted  she  would  hear  from  the  lips  of  the  man  she 
loved  if  they  were  ever  to  meet  again  !  Her  eyes  fell  to 
the  ground.  She  dared  not  raise  them.  If  she  looked  at 
Nobili,  she  must  fling  herself  into  his  arms. 

Nobili,  standing  on  the  same  spot  beyond  the  circle  of 
the  light,  gazes  at  Enrica  in  silence.  He  is  overwhelmed 
by  the  most  conflicting  emotions.  But  the  spell  of  her 
beauty  is  upon  him.  His  pulses  beat  madly.  For  an  in 
stant  he  forgets  where  he  is.  He  forgets  all  but  that  Enri 
ca  is  before  him.  For  a  moment !  Then  his  brain  clears. 
He  remembers  every  thing — remembers — oh,  how  bitter 
ly  ! — that,  after  all  that  has  passed,  his  very  presence  in 
that  room  is  an  insult  to  her !  He  feels  he  ought  to  go — 
yet  an  irresistible  longing  chains  him  to  the  spot.  He 
moves  toward  the  door.  To  reach  it  he  must  pass  close  to 


392  THE  ITALIANS. 

Enrica.  When  he  is  near  the  door  he  stops.  The  light 
shows  that  his  clothes  are  torn — that  there  is  blood  upon 
his  face  and  hands.  In  scarcely  articulate  words  Nobili 
addresses  her. 

"  Enrica — countess,  I  mean  " — Nobili  hesitates — "  par 
don  this  intrusion. — You  saw  the  accident. — I  did  not  know 
that  this  was  your  room." 

Again  Nobili  pauses,  waiting  for  an  answer.  None 
comes.  Would  she  not  speak  to  him  ?  Alas !  had  he  de 
served  that  she  should  ?  Nobili  takes  a  step  or  two  toward 
the  door.  With  one  hand  upon  the  lock  he  pauses  once 
more,  gazing  at  Enrica  with  lingering  eyes.  Then  he  turns 
to  leave  the  room.  It  is  all  over  ! — he  had  only  to  depart ! 
A  low  cry  from  Enrica  stops  him. 

"  Nobili,"  Enrica  says,  "  tell  me — oh  !  tell  me,  are  you 
hurt?" 

Enrica  has  risen  from  the  chair.  One  hand  rests  on  the 
table  for  support.  Her  voice  falters  as  she  asks  the  ques 
tion.  Nobili,  every  drop  of  whose  blood  runs  fevered  in 
his  veins,  turns  toward  her. 

"  I  am  not  hurt — a  scratch  or  two — nothing." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  Enrica  utters,  in  a  low  voice. 

Nobili  endeavors  to  approach  her.     She  draws  back. 

"  As  I  am  here " — he  speaks  with  the  utmost  embar 
rassment — "  here,  as  you  see,  by  accident " — his  voice  rests 
on  the  words — "  I  cannot  go — " 

As  Nobili  speaks  he  perceives  that  Enrica  gradually  re 
treats  farther  from  him.  The  tender  delight  that  had  come 
into  her  eyes  when  he  first  addressed  her  fades  out  into  a 
scared  look — a  look  like  a  defenseless  animal  expecting  to 
receive  a  death-wound.  Nobili  sees  and  understands  the 
expression. 

His  heart  smites  him  sorely.  Great  God  ! — has  he  be 
come  an  object  of  terror  to  her  ? 

"  Enrica ! " — she  starts  back  as  Nobili  pronounces  her 


FACE  TO  FACE.  393 

name,  yet  he  speaks  so  softly  the  sound  comes  to  her  al 
most  like  a  sigh — "  Enrica,  do  not  fear  me.  I  will  say  no 
word  to  offend  you.  I  cannot  go  without  asking  your  par 
don.  As  one  who  loved  you  once — as  one  who  loves — " 
He  stops.  What  is  he  saying  ? — "  I  humbly  beseech  you 
to  forgive  me.  Enrica,  let  me  hear  you  say  that  you  for 
give  me." 

Still  Enrica  retreats  from  him,  that  suffering,  saint-like 
look  upon  her  face  he  knows  so  well.  Nobili  follows  her. 
He  kneels  at  her  feet.  He  kneels  at  the  feet  of  the  woman 
from  whom,  not  an  hour  before,  he  had  demanded  a  separa 
tion! 

"  Say — can  you  forgive  me  before  I  go  ?  " 

As  Nobili  speaks,  his  strong  heart  goes  out  to  her  in 
speechless  longings.  If  Enrica  had  looked  into  his  eyes 
they  would  have  told  her  that  he  never  had  loved  her  as 
now  !  And  they  were  parted  ! 

Enrica  puts  out  her  hand  timidly.  Her  lips  move  as  if 
to  speak,  but  no  sound  comes.  Nobili  rises ;  he  takes  her 
hand  within  both  his  own.  He  kisses  it  reverently. 

"  Dear  hand — "  he  murmurs,  "  and  it  was  mine  ! " 

Released  from  his,  the  dainty  little  hand  falls  to  her  side. 
She  sighs  deeply.  There  is  the  old  charm  in  Nobili's  voice 
— so  sweet,  so  subtile.  The  tones  fall  upon  her  ear  like 
strains  of  passionate  music.  A  storm  of  emotion  sweeps 
across  her  face.  She  has  forgotten  all  in  the  rapture  of  his 
presence.  Yes ! — that  voice  !  Had  it  not  been  raised  but 
a  few  hours  before  at  the  altar  to  repudiate  her  ?  How  can 
she  believe  in  him  ?  How  surrender  herself  to  the  glamour 
of  his  words  ?  Remembering  all  this,  despair  comes  over 
her.  Again  Enrica  shrinks  from  him.  She  bursts  into  tears 
and  hides  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Enrica's  distrust  of  him,  her  silence,  her  tears,  cut  No 
bili  to  the  soul.  He  knows  he  deserves  it.  Ah  ! — with 
her  there  before  him,  how  he  curses  himself  for  ever  having 


394  THE  ITALIANS. 

doubted  her !  Every  justification  suddenly  leaves  him. 
He  is  utterly  confounded.  The  gossip  of  the  club — Count 
Marescotti  and  his  miserable  verses — the  marchesa  herself 
— what  are  they  all  beside  the  purity  of  those  saint-like 
eyes  ?  Nera,  too — false,  fickle,  sensual  Nera — a  mere  thing 
of  flesh  and  blood — he  had  left  her  for  Nera !  Was  he 
mad? 

At  that  moment,  of  all  living  men,  Count  Nobili  seemed 
to  himself  the  most  unworthy !  He  must  go — he  did  not 
deserve  to  stay ! 

"  Enrica — before  I  leave  you,  speak  to  me  one  word  of 
forgiveness — I  implore  you ! " 

As  he  speaks  their  eyes  meet.  Yes,  she  is  his  own  En 
rica — unchanged,  unsullied ! — the  idol  is  intact  within  its 
shrine — the  sanctuary  is  as  he  had  left  it !  No  rude  touch 
had  soiled  that  atmosphere  of  purity  and  freshness  that 
floated  like  an  aureole  around  her ! 

How  could  he  leave  her  ? — if  they  must  part,  he  would 
hear  his  fate  from  her  own  lips.  Enrica  is  leaning  against 
the  wall  speechless,  her  face  shaded  by  her  hand.  Big  tears 
are  trickling  through  her  fingers.  Unable  to  support  her 
self  she  clings  to  a  chair,  then  seats  herself.  And  Nobili, 
pale  with  passion  stands  by,  and  dares  not  so  much  as  to 
touch  her — dares  not  touch  her,  although  she  is  his  wife  ! 

In  the  fury  of  his  self-reproach,  he  digs  his  hands  into 
the  masses  of  thick  chestnut  curls  that  lie  disordered  about 
his  head. 

Fool,  idiot! — had  he  lost  her?  A  terrible  misgiving 
overcomes  him  ?  It  fills  him  with  horror.  Was  it  too  late  ? 
Would  she  never  forgive  him  ?  Nobili's  troubled  eyes,  that 
wander  all  over  her,  ask  the  question. 

"  Speak  to  me — speak  to  me  1 "  he  cries.  "  Curse  me — 
but  speak  to  me ! " 

At  this  appeal  Enrica  turns  her  tear-bedewed  face  tow 
ard  him. 


FACE   TO   FACE.  395 

"  Nobili,"  she  says  at  last,  very  low,  "  would  you  have 
gone  without  seeing  me  ?  " 

Nobili  dares  not  lie  to  her.     He  makes  no  reply. 

"  Oh,  do  not  deceive  me,  Nobili ! "  and  Enrica  wrings 
her  hands  and  looks  piteously  into  his  face.  "  Tell  me — 
would  you  have  come  to  me  ?  " 

It  is  only  by  a  strong  effort  that  Nobili  can  restrain  him 
self  from  folding  Enrica  in  his  arms  and  in  one  burning  kiss 
burying  the  remembrance  of  the  miserable  past.  But  he 
trembles  lest  by  offending  her  the  tender  flower  before  him 
may  never  again  expand  to  the  ardor  of  his  love.  If  Fra 
Pacifico  has  not  by  his  arguments  already  shaken  Nobili's 
conviction  of  the  righteousness  of  his  own  conduct,  the 
sight  of  Enrica  utterly  overcomes  him. 

"  Deceive  you ! "  he  exclaims,  approaching  her  and  seiz 
ing  her  hands  which  she  did  not  withdraw — "  deceive  you  ! 
How  little  you  read  my  heart ! " 

He  holds  her  soft  hands  firmly  in  his — he  covers  them 
with  kisses.  Enrica  feels  the  tender  pressure  of  his  lips 
pass  through  her  whole  frame.  But,  can  she  trust  him  ? 

"  Did  I  not  love  you  enough  ?  "  she  asks,  looking  into 
his  face.  She  gently  disengages  her  hands  from  his  grasp. 
There  is  no  reproach  in  her  look,  but  infinite  sorrow.  "  Can 
I  believe  you  ?  "  And  the  soft  blue  eyes  rest  upon  him  full 
of  pathetic  pleading. 

An  expression  of  despair  comes  into  Nobili's  bright 
face.  How  can  he  answer  her?  How  can  he  satisfy  her 
when  he  himself  has  shaken  her  trust  ?  Alas  !  would  the 
golden  past  never  come  again?  The  past,  tinted  with  the 
passion  of  ardent  summer  ? 

"  Believe  me  ?  "  he  cries,  in  a  tone  of  wildest  passion. 
"  Can  you  ask  me  ?  " 

As  he  speaks  he  leans  over  her.  Love  is  in  his  voice — 
his  eyes — his  whole  attitude.  Would  she  not  understand 
him  ?  Would  she  reject  him  ? 


396  THE  ITALIANS. 

Enrica  draws  back — she  raises  her  hand  in  protest. 

"  Let  me  again" — Nobili  is  following  her  closely — "  let 
me  implore  your  forgiveness  of  my  unmanly  conduct." 

She  presses  her  hands  to  her  bosom  as  if  in  pain,  but 
not  a  sound  comes  to  her  lips. 

"  Believe  me,"  he  urges,  "  I  have  been  driven  mad  by 
the  marchesa !  It  is  my  only  excuse." 

"Am  I?"  Enrica  answers.  "Have  I  not  suffered 
enough  from  my  aunt  ?  What  had  she  to  do  between  you 
and  me  ?  Did  I  love  you  less  because  she  hated  you  ?  Lis 
ten,  Nobili " — Enrica  with  difficulty  commands  her  voice 
— "  from  the  first  time  we  met  in  the  cathedral  I  gave  my 
self  to  you — you — you  only." 

"  But,  Enrica — love — you  consented  to  leave  me.  You 
sent  Fra  Pacifico  to  say  so." 

The  thought  that  Enrica  had  so  easily  resigned  him 
still  rankled  in  Nobili's  heart.  Spite  of  himself,  there  is  bit 
terness  in  his  tone. 

Enrica  is  standing  aloof  from  him.  The  light  of  the 
lamp  strikes  upon  her  golden  hair,  her  downcast  ejTes,  her 
cheeks  mantling  with  blushes. 

"  I  leave  you ! " — a  soft  dew  came  into  Enrica's  eyes  as 
she  fixed  them  upon  Nobili — a  dew  that  rapidly  formed 
itself  into  two  tears  that  rolled  silently  down  her  cheek — 
"  never — never ! " 

Spite  of  the  horrors  of  the  past,  these  words,  that  look, 
tell  him  she  is  his !  Nobili's  heart  leaps  within  him.  For 
a  moment  he  is  breathless — speechless  in  the  tumult  of  his 
great  joy. 

"  Oh  !  my  beloved !  "  he  cries,  in  a  voice  that  penetrates 
her  very  soul.  "  Come  to  me — here — to  a  heart  all  your 
own ! "  He  springs  forward  and  clasps  her  in  his  arms. 
"  Thus — thus  let  the  past  perish ! "  Nobili  whispers  as  his 
lips  touch  hers.  Enrica's  head  nestles  upon  his  breast. 
She  has  once  more  found  her  home. 


FACE  TO  FACE.  397 

A  subdued  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 

"  Sangue  di  Dio ! "  mutters  Nobili,  disengaging  himself 
from  Enrica — "what  new  torment  is  this?  Is  there  no 
peace  in  this  house  ?  Who  is  there  ?  " 

"  It  is  I,  Count  Nobili."  Maestro  Guglielmi  puts  in  his 
hatchet  face  and  glaring  teeth.  In  an  instant  his  pier 
cing  eyes  have  traveled  round  the  room.  He  has  taken  in 
the  whole  situation — Count  Nobili  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor — flushed — agitated — furious  at  this  interruption ;  En 
rica — revived — conscious — blushing  at  his  side.  The  inves 
tigation  is  so  perfectly  satisfactory  that  Maestro  Guglielmi 
cannot  suppress  a  grin  of  delight. 

"  Believe  me,  Signore  Conte,"  he  says,  advancing  cau 
tiously  a  step  or  two  forward  into  the  room,  a  deprecating 
look  on  his  face — "  believe  me — this  intrusion  " — Gugliel 
mi  turns  to  Enrica,  grins  again  palpably,  then  bows — "  is 
not  of  my  seeking." 

"  Tell  me  instantly  what  brings  you  here  ?  "  demands 
Nobili,  advancing.  (Nobili  would  have  liked  beyond  meas 
ure  to  relieve  his  feelings  by  kicking  him.) 

"  It  is  just  that " — Guglielmi  cannot  refrain  from  another 
glance  round  before  he  proceeds — (yes,  they  are  recon 
ciled,  no  doubt  of  it.  The  judgeship  is  his  own !  Ewiva ! 
The  illustrious  personage — so  notoriously  careful  of  his 
subjects'  morals — who  had  deigned  to  interest  himself  in 
the  marriage,  might  possibly,  at  the  birth  of  a  son  and  heir 
to  the  Guinigi,  add  a  pension — who  knows  ?  At  this  re 
flection  the  lawyer's  eyes  become  altogether  unmanageable) 
— "  it  is  just  that,"  repeats  Guglielmi,  making  a  desperate 
effort  to  collect  himself.  "  Personally  I  should  have  de 
clined  it,  personally;  but  the  marchesa's  commands  were 
absolute:  'You  must  go  vourself,  I  will  permit  no  dep- 
uty.'» 

"  Damn  the  marchesa  !  Shall  I  never  be  rid  of  the 
marchesa  ?  " 


398  THE  ITALIANS. 

Nobili's  aspect  is  becoming  menacing.  Maestro  Gu- 
glielmi  is  not  a  man  easily  daunted ;  yet  once  within  the 
room,  and  the  desired  evidence  obtained,  he  cannot  but 
feel  all  the  awkwardness  of  his  position.  Greatly  as  Gu- 
glielmi  had  been  tickled  at  the  notion  of  becoming  himself 
a  witness  in  his  own  case,  to  do  him  justice  he  would  not 
have  volunteered  it. 

"  The  marchesa  sent  me,"  he  stammers,  conscious  of 
Count  Nobili's  indignation  (with  his  arms  crossed,  Count 
Nobili  is  eying  Guglielmi  from  head  to  foot).  "  The  mar 
chesa  sent  me  to  know — " 

Nobili  unfolds  his  arms,  walks  straight  up  to  where  Gu 
glielmi  is  standing,  and  shakes  his  fist  in  his  face. 

"  Do  you  know,  Signore  Avvocato,  that  you  are  commit 
ting  an  intolerable  impertinence  ?  If  you  do  not  instantly 
quit  this  room,  or  give  me  some  excellent  reason  for  remain 
ing,  you  shall  very  speedily  have  my  opinion  of  your  conduct 
in  a  very  decided  manner." 

Count  Nobili  is  decidedly  dangerous.  He  glares  at 
Guglielmi  like  a  very  devil.  Guglielmi  falls  back.  The 
false  smile  is  upon  his  lips,  but  his  treacherous  eyes  express 
his  terror.  Guglielmi's  combats  are  only  with  words,  his 
weapon  the  pen ;  otherwise  he  is  powerless. 

"  Excuse  me,  Count  Nobili,  excuse  me,"  he  stammers. 
He  rubs  his  hands  nervously  together  and  watches  Nobili, 
who  is  following  him  step  by  step.  "It  is  not  my  fault — I 
give  you  my  word — not  my  fault.  Don't  look  so,  count;  you 
really  alarm  me.  I  am  here  as  a  man  of  peace — I  entreated 
the  marchesa  to  retire  to  rest.  I  represented  to  her  the 
peculiar  delicacy  of  the  position,  but  I  grieve  to  say  she 
insisted." 

Nobili  is  now  close  to  him  ;  his  eyes  are  gathered  upon 
him  more  threateningly  than  ever. 

"  Remember,  sir,  you  are  addressing  me  in  the  presence 
of  my  wife — be  careful." 


FACE  TO  FACE.  399 

What  a  withering  look  Nobiii  gives  Guglielmi  as  he 
says  this !  He  can  with  difficulty  keep  his  hands  off  him  ! 

"  Yes — yes — just  so — just  so — I  applaud  your  senti 
ments,  Count  Nobiii — most  appropriate.  Now  I  will  go." 

Alarmed  as  he  is,  Guglielmi  cannot  resist  one  parting 
glance  at  Enrica.  She  is  crimson.  Then  with  an  expres 
sion  of  infinite  relief  he  retreats  to  the  door  walking  back 
ward.  Guglielmi  has  a  strong  conviction  that  if  he  turns 
round  Count  Nobiii  may  kick  him,  so,  keeping  his  eyes 
well  balanced  upon  him,  he  fumbles  with  his  hands  behind 
his  back  to  find  the  handle  of  the  door.  In  his  confusion 
he  misses  it. 

"  Not  for  worlds,  Signore  Conte,"  says  Guglielmi,  ner 
vously  passing  his  hand  up  and  down  the  panel  in  search  of 
the  door-handle — "  not  for  worlds  would  I  offend  you !  Be 
lieve  me — (maledictions  on  the  door — it  is  bewitched !)  " 

Now  Guglielmi  has  it !  Safely  clutching  the  handle 
with  both  his  hands,  Guglielmi's  courage  returns.  His 
mocking  eyes  look  up  without  blinking  into  Nobili's,  fierce 
and  flashing  as  they  are. 

"  Before  I  go  " — he  bows  with  affected  humility — 
"  will  you  favor  me,  count,  and  you,  madame  "  (Guglielmi  is 
clutching  the  door-handle  tightly,  so  as  to  be  able  to  escape 
at  any  moment),  "  by  informing  me  whether  you  still  desire 
the  deed  of  separation  to  be  prepared  for  your  signature  in 
the  morning  ?  " 

"  Leave  the  room  !  "  roars  Count  Nobiii,  stamping  furi 
ously  on  the  floor — "  leave  the  room,  or,  Domine  Dio ! — ' 

Maestro  Guglielmi  had  jumped  out  backward,  before 
Count  Nobiii  could  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Enrica  ! "  cries  Nobiii,  turning  toward  her — he  had 
banged-to  the  door  and  locked  it — "  Enrica,  if  you  love  me, 
let  us  leave  this  accursed  villa  to-night !  This  is  more  than 
I  can  bear ! " 

What  Enrica  replied,  or  if  Enrica  ever  replied  at  all,  is, 
and  ever  will  remain,  a  mystery  ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OH    BELLO ! 

AN  hour  or  two  has  passed.  A  slow  and  cautious  step, 
accompanied  with  the  tapping  of  a  stick  upon  the  stone 
flags  of  the  floor,  is  audible  along  the  narrow  passage  lead 
ing  from  the  sala  to  Pipa's  room.  It  is  as  dark  as  pitch. 
Whoever  it  is,  is  afraid  of  falling,  and  creeps  along  cau 
tiously,  feeling  by  the  wall. 

Pipa,  expecting  to  be  summoned  to  her  mistress — Pipa, 
wondering  greatly  indeed  what  Enrica  can  be  about,  and 
why  she  does  not  go  to  bed,  when  she,  the  blessed  dear, 
was  so  faint  and  tired,  and  crying — oh,  so  pitifully  ! — when 
she  left  her — Pipa,  leaning  against  the  door-post  near  the 
half-open  door,  dozing  like  a  dog  with  one  eye  open  in  case 
she  should  be  called — listened  and  looked  out  into  the  pas 
sage.  A  figure  is  standing  within  the  light  that  streams 
out  from  the  door,  a  very  well-remembered  figure,  stout  and 
short — a  little  bent  forward  on  a  stick — with  a  round,  rosy 
face  framed  in  snowy  curls,  a  world  of  pleasant  wickedness 
in  two  twinkling  eyes,  on  which  the  light  strikes,  and  a 
mouth  puckered  up  for  any  mischief. 

f  "  Madonna  !  "  cries  Pipa,  rubbing  her  eyes — "  the  cava- 
liere  !  How  you  did  frighten  me  !  I  cannot  bear  to  hear 
footsteps  about  when  Adamo  is  out ;  "  and  Pipa  gazes  up 
and  down  into  the  darkness  with  an  unpleasant  conscious 
ness  that  something  ghostly  might  be  watching  her. 

"  Pipa,"  says  the  cavaliere,  putting  his  finger  to  his  nose 


OH   BELLO!  401 

and  winking  palpably,  "  hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  scream 
when  I  tell  you  something.  Promise  me." 

"  O  Gesu ! "  cries  Pipa  in  a  loud  voice,  starting  back, 
forgetting  his  injunction — "is  it  not  about  the  signorina?" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Pipa,  or  I  will  tell  you  nothing." 

Pipa's  head  is  instantly  close  to  the  cavaliere's,  her  face 
all  eagerness. 

"Yes,  it  is  about  the  signorina — the  countess.  She  is 
gone ! " 

"  Gone  !  "  and  Pipa,  spite  of  warning,  fairly  shouts  now 
"gone!"  at  which  the  cavaliere  shakes  his  stick  at  her, 
smiling,  however,  benignly  all  the  time.  "  Holy  mother  ! 
gone  !  O  cavaliere !  tell  me — she  is  not  dead  ?  " 

(Ever  since  Pipa  had  tended  Enrica  lying  on  her  bed, 
so  still  and  cold,  it  seemed  reasonable  to  her  that  she  might 
die  at  any  instant,  without  warning  given.) 

"  Yes,  Pipa,"  answers  the  cavaliere  solemnly,  his  voice 
shaking  slightly,  but  he  still  smiles,  though  the  dew  of 
rising  tears  is  in  his  merry  eyes — "  yes,  dead — dead  to  us, 
my  Pipa — I  fear  dead  to  us." 

Pipa  sinks  back  in  speechless  horror  against  the  wall, 
and  groans. 

"But  only  to  us — (don't  be  a  fool,  Pipa)" — this  in  a 
parenthesis — "  she  is  gone  with  her  husband." 

Pipa  rises  to  her  feet  and  stares  at  Trenta,  at  first  wildly, 
then,  as  little  by  little  the  hidden  sense  comes  to  her,  her  rosy 
lips  slowly  part  and  lengthen  out  until  every  snowy  tooth 
is  visible.  Then  Pipa  covers  her  face  with  her  apron,  and 
shakes  from  head  to  foot  in  such  a  fit  of  laughter,  that  she 
has  to  lean  against  the  wall  not  to  fall  down.  "  Oh  bello  ! " 
is  all  she  can  say.  This  Pipa  repeats  at  intervals  in  gasps. 

"  Come,  Pipa,  that  will  do,"  says  the  cavaliere,  poking 
at  her  with  his  stick — "  I  must  get  back  before  I  am  missed 
— no  one  must  know  it  till  morning — least  of  all  the  mar- 
chesa  and  Guglielmi.  They  are  shut  up  together.  The 


402  THE  ITALIANS. 

marchesa  says  she  will  sit  up  all  night.  But  Count  Nobili 
and  his  wife  are  gone — really  gone.  Fra  Pacifico  managed 
it.  He  got  hold  of  Adamo,  who  was  running  round  the 
house  with  a  loaded  gun,  all  the  dogs  after  him.  Take 
care  of  Adamo  when  he  comes  back  to-night,  Pipa.  He  is 
fastening  up  the  dogs,  and  feeding  them,  and  taking  care 
of  poor  Argo,  who  is  badly  hurt.  He  is  quite  mad,  Adamo. 
I  never  saw  a  man  so  wild.  He  would  not  come  in.  He 
said  the  marchesa  had  told  him  to  shoot  some  one.  He 
swore  he  would  do  it  yet.  He  nearly  fought  with  Fra 
Pacifico  when  he  forced  him  in.  Adamo  is  quite  mad. 
Tell  him  nothing  to-night ;  he  is  not  safe." 

Pipa  has  now  let  down  her  apron.  Her  bright  olive- 
complexioned  face  beams  in  one  broad  smile,  like  the  full 
moon  at  harvest.  She  is  still  shaking,  and  at  intervals 
gives  little  spasmodic  giggles. 

"  Leave  Adamo  to  me  "  (another  giggle) ;  "  I  will  man 
age  him  "  (another).  "  Wh}%  he  might  have  shot  the  si- 
gnorina's  husband — the  fool ! " 

This  thought  steadies  Pipa  for  an  instant,  but  she  bursts 
out  again.  "  Oh  bello  ! " — Pipa  gurgles  like  a  stream  that 
cannot  stop  running ;  then  she  breaks  off  all  at  once,  and 
listens.  "  Hush  !  hush !  There  is  Adamo  coming,  cavaliere 
— hush  !  hush  1  Make  haste  and  go  away.  He  is  coming 
— Adamo;  I  hear  him  on  the  gravel." 

"  Say  nothing  until  the  morning,"  whispers  the  cava 
liere.  "  Give  them  a  fair  start.  Ha  !  ha !  " 

Pipa  nods.  Her  face  twitches  all  over.  As  Cavaliere 
Trenta  turns  to  go,  Pipa  catches  him  smartly  by  the  shoul 
der,  draws  him  to  her,  and  speaks  into  his  ear : 

"  To  think  the  signorina  has  run  away  with  her  own 
husband  !  Oh  bello  ! " 


THE    END. 


CHRISTIAN  REID'S  NOVELS. 


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(R  O  MA.  N C  21 

OF 

OLD  COURT -LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

By   FRANCES   ELLIOT, 

AUTHOB  OJ1  "  THE  ITAIJANS,"  ETC. 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY  ALFRED   FREDERICKS. 
Large  8vo,  cloth,  $2.00;  paper,  $1.50. 


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"  In  a  most  entertaining  manner  the  romantic  history  of  France,  since  the  sixteenth 
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carefully  to  work  into  her  dialogue  each  word  and  sentence  recorded  of  the  individual, 
every  available  trait  or  peculiarity  of  character,  to  be  found  in  contemporary  memoirs, 
and  every  tradition  that  has  come  down  to  us.  She  has  thereby  made  a  most  readable 
book.  It  is  very  handsomely  gotten  up,  and  is  finely  illustrated." 

Philadelphia  Ledger. 

"A  remarkably  rich  and  delicate  imagination  weaves  about  the  persons  of  the 
French  nobility  a  charm  of  refinement." 

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Philadelphia  Age. 

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sketch  of  the  loves,  intrigues,  and  events,  which  agitated  the  old  court-life  in  France." 

Hartford  Times. 

"  To  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  French  memoir-writers,  the  most  agreeable  of 
histories,  or  with  the  series  of  historical  novels  in  which  the  elder  Dumas  rivaled  \Valter 
Scott,  this  book  will  revive  many  memories  of  court  history,  adventures,  and  intrigues. 
To  others,  who  are  not  conversant  with  those  departments  of  French  literature,  this 
volume  will  be  a  new  revelation.  It  begins  with  Francis  I.,  who  lost,  as  he  said,  every 
thing  but  honor  at  the  battle  of  Pavia." 


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MEMOIRS  OF  GENERAL  WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN, 

WRITTEN  BY  HIMSELF.  Complete  in  Two  Volumes.  With  a  Military  Map 
showing  the  Marches  of  the  Armies  under  General  Sherman's  Command,  inserted 
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pages  each.  Price,  in  Blue  Cloth,  $5.50;  Sheep,  $7.00;  Half  Morocco,  $8.50; 
Full  Morocco,  $12.00. 

"  These  memoirs  are  by  far  the  most  interesting  and  important  contribution  yet  made 
to  the  military  history  of  the  Rebellion  by  any  of  the  leading  actors  in  the  great  strug 
gle.  The  staggering  blows  which  General  Sherman  dealt  to  the  Confederacy  have  se 
cured  him  the  undying  gratitude  of  his  countrymen,  while  the  brilliancy  which  he  dis 
played  as  a  strategist,  and  the  surpassing  ability  which  he  developed  as  a.  commander, 
entitle  him  to  rank  among  the  most  distinguished  leaders  that  the  world  has  produced. 
The  personal  history  of  so  marked  a  man  must  always  possess  extraordinary  interest 
When  it  is  related  by  the  man  himself,  and  in  that  peculiarly  racy  style  which  General 
Sherman's  letters  and  speeches  have  made  familiar  to  the  public,  it  becomes  not  only 
absorbing  but  fascinating.  The  march  from  Atlanta  began  on  the  morning  of  Novem 
ber  isth.  General  Sherman's  narrative  of  this  whole  movement  is  of  romantic  interest. 
Some  of  his  descriptions  are  not  only  picturesque  but  thrilling  in  their  eloquence.  And 
interspersed  are  well-told  incidents,  many  of  them  full  of  genuine  humor,  which  give 
unusual  vivacity  to  the  story.  In  military  annals  the  narrative  is  unique,  but  it  must 
be  read  in  its  entirety  to  be  appreciated.  The  terse,  clear,  vigorous  English  in  which 
the  memoirs  are  written  is  one  of  their  greatest  charms.  This  fitly  reflects  the  intense 
personality  of  the  man.  The  straightforward,  spirited  narrative  will  enable  a  grateful 
country  better  to  appreciate  the  immense  value  of  the  services  which  General  Sherman 
rendered  it  in  the  critical  period  through  which  he  helped  guide  it,  and  it  will  also  aid 
others  than  Americans  in  forming  a  clearer  estimate  of  the  tremendous  struggle  in  which 
the  author  of  these  memoirs  bore  so  distinguished  a  part." — ./V.  Y.  Times. 

"An  autobiography  so  unreserved  as  this  of  General  Sherman,  printed  during  the 
lifetime  of  the  writer,  would  certainly  be  an  unsafe  procedure  for  one  who  had  the  least 
need  of  any  assistance  from  humbug.  The  author  of  these  memoirs  is  a  man  who  can 
afford  to  be  seen  as  he  is.  Strip  him  of  his  epaulets,  his  brass  buttons,  and  his  cocked 
hat,  and  he  still  appears  a  valiant,  able,  and  distinguished  person.  Indeed,  it  is  quite 
necessary  that  he  should  be  stripped  of  these  accoutrements.  We  need  to  see  him  amid 
the  camp-fires  of  Georgia,  or  on  the  march  with  his  wagon-trains  and  foraging-bummers. 
So  much  for  the  picturesque  and  external  man.  But  there  is  no  need  that  he  should 
conceal  the  mind  behind  all  this.  General  Sherman  has  told  his  story  with  the  most  en 
tire  unreserve,  and  the  story  is  one  which  Americans  will  be  proud  to  read.  We  cannot 
help  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  in  being  of  the  same  race  and  the  same  country  with  such  a 
man.  We  have  here  a  picture  of  a  person,  resolute  yet  cautious,  bold  yet  prudent,  con 
fident  yet  modest ;  a  man  of  action  to  his  finger-ends,  yet  withal  something  of  a  poet ; 
we  see  all  through  the  book  the  evidences  of  a  chivalrous  mind  and  of  an  intellect  of 
singular  force  and  precision.  .  .  .  We  have  spoken  of  Sherman  as,  in  some  sort,  a  poet. 
All  through  these  great  campaigns,  while  his  whole  mind  is  absorbed  with  the  events  he 
is  conducting,  he  nevertheless  appears  to  take  a  poet's  joy  in  the  spectacle  of  his  battle 
fields  and  moving  armies.  His  enthusiasm  will  be  shared  by  his  readers.  That  passage 
in  which  he  speaks  of  his  last  look  on  Atlanta,  and  tells  us  how  it  brought  to  his  mind 
'many  a  thought  of  desperate  battle,  of  hope  and  fear,'  has  an  eloquence  which  no  mere 
writer  of  books  can  reach.  The  skill  to  write  in  that  way  is  not  taught  in  Blair  or 
Whately."— ff.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"  Sherman  shows  that  he  can  wield  the  pen  as  well  as  the  sword.  His  style  is  as 
much  his  own  as  that  of  Caesar  or  Napoleon.  It  is  a  winning  style.  We  see  a  gifted 
man  telling  his  life  in  a  plain,  artless  fashion,  but  with  a  trenchant  rhetoric.  Whenever 
an  opinion  is  demanded  he  gives  it.  His  picture  of  the  early  days  in  California  is  as 
graphic  as  a  chapter  from  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Now  and  then  there  are  criticisms  upon 
his  contemporaries  which  will  provoke  comment;  but,  plainly  enough,  Sherman  means 
what  he  says.  This  is  the  value  of  the  work.  We  are  glad  the  General  has  written  it. 
In  many  cases  it  throws  new  light  upon  the  Rebellion.  Only  by  such  light  can  the  full 
measure  of  that  momentous  time  he  taken.  And,  whatever  criticisms  may  be  made 
upon  the  book,  we  honor  the  General  for  having  given  us  so  graphic  and  just  a  his 
tory  of  events  in  which  he  himself  was  so  illustrious  and  successful  an  actor." — A'.  Y. 
Herald. 

D.  APPLE  TON  6°  CO.,  Publishers,  549  &  551  Broadway,  N.  Y 


Mrs.  Warfleld's  New  Novel. 


MIRIAM  MONFORT. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HOUSEHOLD  OF  BOUVERIE." 
One  I2mo  Volume.     Price,  $2.00. 

'iliC  N.  Y.  Evening  Post  says  of  "Miriam  Monfort :  "  "Mrs.  Warfield'i 
new  novel  has  freshness,  and  is  so  far  removed  from  mediocrity  as  to  entitle 
it  to  respectful  comment.  Her  fiction  calls  for  study.  Her  perception  is  deep 
find  artistic,  as  respects  both  the  dramatic  side  of  life  and  the  beautiful.  It 
is  not  strictly  nature,  in  the  general  sense,  that  forms  the  basis  of  her  descrip 
tions.  Sl;e  finds  something  deeper  and  more  mystic  than  nature  in  the  sense 
in  which  the  term  is  usually  used  by  critics,  in  the  answer  of  the  soul  to  life 
— in  the  strange,  weird,  and  lonesome  music  (though  now  and  then  broken  by 
discords)  of  the  still  small  voices  with  which  human  nature  replies  to  the 
questions  that  sorely  vex  her.  She  has  the  analytic  capacity  in  the  field  of 
psychology,  which  enables  her  to  trace  phenomena  in  a  story  without  argu 
ing  about  them,  and  to  exhibit  the  dramatic  side  of  them  without  stopping  to 
explain  the  reasons  for  it.  In  a  word,  her  hand  is  as  sure  as  that  of  a  mas 
ter,  and  if  there  were  more  such  novels  as  this  simple  semi-biographical  story 
of  Miriam  Monfort,  it  would  not  be  necessary  so  often  to  put  the  question, 
4  Is  the  art  of  fictiou  extinct  ?  '  " 

The  Cincinnati  Daily  Gazette  says :  "  '  Miriam  Monfort,'  which  now  lies 
before  us,  is  less  sensational  in  incident  than  its  predecessor,  though  it  does 
not  lack  stirring  events — an  experience  on  a  burning  ship,  for  example.  Its 
interest  lies  in  the  intensity  which  marks  all  the  characters  good  and  bad. 
The  plot  turns  on  the  treachery  of  a  pretended  lover,  and  the  author  seems 
to  have  experienced  every  emotion  of  love  and  hate,  jealousy  and  fear,  that 
has  inspired  the  creations  of  her  pen.  There  is  a  contagion  in  her  earnest 
ness,  and  we  doubt  not  that  numerous  readers  will  follow  the  fortunes  of  the 
beautiful  but  much-persecuted  Miriam  with  breathless  interest." 

The  All  Day  City  Item  says :  "  It  is  a  work  of  extraordittary  merit.  The 
story  is  charmingly  told  by  the  heroine.  It  is  admirable  and  original  in  plot, 
varied  in  incident,  and  intensely  absorbing  in  interest;  besides,  throughout 
the  volume,  there  is  an  exquisite  combination  of  sensibility,  pride,  and  loveli 
ness,  which  will  hold  the  work  in  high  estimation.  We  make  a  quotation  from 
the  book  that  suits  the  critic  exactly.  '  It  is  splendid ;  it  is  a  dream,  more 
vivid  than  life  itself;  it  is  like  drinking  champagne,  smelling  tuberoses,  in 
haling  laughing-gas,  going  to  the  opera,  all  at  one  time.'  We  recommend 
this  to  our  young  lady  friends  as  a  most  thoughtfully  and  delightfully  writter 
novel." 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

649  &  551  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK 


RE  S  S  A  N  T. 

A  NOVEL. 

By  JULIAN    HAWTHORNE. 
1  vol.,  12mo.     Cloth Price,  $1.50 


From  the,  London  Examiner. 

K  We  will  not  say  that  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  has  received  a  double  portion  of  hii 
father's  spirit,  but  'Bressant1  proves  that  he  has  inherited  the  distinctive  tone  and 
fibre  of  a  gift  which  was  altogether  exceptional,  and  moved  the  author  of  the  'Scarlet 
Letter1  beyond  the  reach  of  imitators. 

"  Bressant,  Sophie,  and  Cornelia,  appear  to  us  invested  with  a  sort  of  enchantment 
which  we  should  find  it  difficult  to  account  for  by  any  reference  to  any  special  passage 
in  their  story." 

from  the  London  Athenaum. 

"Mr.  Hawthorne's  book  forms  a  remarkable  contrast,  in  point  of  power  and  interest, 
to  the  dreary  mass  of  so-called  romances  through  which  the  reviewer  works  his  way. 
It  is  not  our  purpose  to  forestall  the  reader,  by  any  detailed  account  of  the  story ;  suf 
fice  it  to  say  that,  if  we  can  accept  the  preliminary  difficulty  of  the  problem,  its  solution, 
in  all  its  steps,  is  most  admirably  worked  out." 

From  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"So  far  as  a  man  may  be  judged  by  his  first  work,  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  Is  en 
dowed  with  a  large  share  of  his  father's  peculiar  genius.  We  trace  in  '  Bressant '  the 
same  intense  yearning  after  a  high  and  spiritual  life,  the  same  passionate  love  of  nature, 
the  same  subtlety  and  delicacy  of  remark,  and  also  a  h'ttle  of  the  same  tendency  to  in 
dulge  in  the  use  of  a  half-weird,  half-fantastic  imagery." 

From  the  Few  York  Times. 

"  'Bressant'  Is,  then,  a  work  that  demonstrates  the  fitness  of  its  author  to  bear  the 
name  of  Hawthorne.  More  in  praise  need  not  be  said ;  but,  if  the  promise  of  the  book 
shall  not  utterly  fade  and  vanish,  Julian  Hawthorne,  in  the  maturity  of  his  power,  will 
rank  side  by  side  with  him  who  has  hitherto  been  peerless,  but  whom  w«  must  here 
after  call  the  'Elder  Hawthorne.'" 

From  the.  Boston  Post. 

"There  is  beauty  as  well  as  power  in  this  novel,  the  two  so  pleasantly  blended,  that 
the  sudden  and  incomplete  conclusion,  although  ending  the  romance  with  an  abrupt 
ness  that  is  itself  artistic,  comes  only  too  soon  for  the  reader." 

From  tlie  Boston  Globe. 

"  It  is  by  far  the  most  original  novel  of  the  season  that  has  been  published  at  home 
or  abroad,  and  will  take  high  rank  among  the  best  American  novels  ever  written." 

From  the  Boston  Gazette. 

"  There  is  a  strength  in  the  book  which  takes  it  in  a  marked  degree  out  of  the  range 
of  ordinary  works  of  fiction  It  is  substantially  an  original  story.  There  are  freshness 
and  vigor  in  every  part." 

From  the  Home  Journal. 

"'Bressant1  Is  a  remarkable  romance,  full  of  those  subtle  touches  of  fancy,  and  that 
insight  into  the  human  heart,  which  distinguish  genius  from  the  mere  clever  and  en- 
tertaining  writers  of  whom  we  have  perhaps  too  many." 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO,,  Publishers,  New  York, 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART!  ' 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO. 

Have  recently  published, 

GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART! 

By   RHODA    BROUGHTON, 

AUTHOR  OF  "BED  AS  A  EOSE  is  SHE,"   "COMETH  UP  AS  A  FLOWER,"  ETC. 

One  Vol.,  8vo.    Paper  covers Price,  $0.75. 

"  12mo.     Cloth...  "         1.5O. 


"  Good-bye,  Sweetheart ! "  is  certainly  one  of  the  brightest  and  most 
entertaining  novels  that  has  appeared  for  many  years.  The  heroine  of  the 
story,  Lenore,  is  really  an  original  character,  drawn  only  as  a  woman 
could  draw  her,  who  had  looked  deeply  into  the  mysterious  recesses  of 
the  feminine  heart.  She  is  a  creation  totally  beyond  the  scope  of  a  man'^ 
pen,  unless  it  were  the  pen  of  Shakespeare.  Her  beauty,  her  wilfulncs?, 
her  caprice,  her  love,  and  her  sorrow,  are  depicted  with  marvellous  skill, 
and  invested  with  an  interest  of  which  the  reader  never  becomes  weary. 
Miss  Broughton,  in  this  work,  has  made  an  immense  advance  on  her  other 
stories,  clever  as  those  are.  Her  sketches  of  scenery  ar.d  of  interiors, 
though  brief,  are  eminently  graphic,  and  the  dialogue  is  always  sparkling 
and  witty.  The  incidents,  though  sometimes  startling  and  unexpected, 
are  very  natural,  and  the  characters  and  story,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end,  strongly  enchain  the  attention  of  the  reader.  The  work  has  been 
warmly  commended  by  the  press  during  its  publication,  as  a  serial,  in 
APPLETONS'  JOURNAL,  and,  in  its  book-form,  bids  fair  to  be  decidedly  THB 
novel  of  the  season. 


D.  A.  &  Co.  fiave  now  ready,  New  Editions  of 

COMETH  UP  AS  A  FLOWER Price,  60  cents. 

NOT  WISELY,  BUT  TOO  WELL Price,  fin  cents. 

BED  AS  A  EOSE  IS  SHE Price,  60  cents. 

BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


from  which  it  was  borrowed 


